The Nine Hundred and Ninety-Nine
by maximsk
Summary: Every hero with the luck to be remembered is one in a thousand. Before the Dragonborn built his legacy, the unsung multitudes of Skyrim all played their part in shaping the world he would fight for. Some might be called heroes themselves. Others might be called villains. But whether they go remembered or not, all of them lead their own stories.
1. Ralof

**This is a prequel to The Currents of Time. Enjoy!**

Sundas, 10:30 AM, 17th of Last Seed, 4E 202

Falkreath Hold

This wasn't how Ralof had expected to die.

It was a beautiful morning, like any morning in Skyrim. The air was fresh and crisp, breezing gently through the treetops above. The sun was shining high in the sky, and everything was perfectly warm to the touch. Ralof didn't enjoy it as much as normal, though, because he was sitting in a wagon with his wrists tied together.

He'd been back here for days, right here on this wooden seat, getting bounced and jostled around every time the wheels ran over an odd cobblestone. He wished they'd get it over with soon. They weren't destined for a stay in some dungeon. The only possible reason why the Empire hadn't killed them already was so that they could be publicly executed. Ralof's fate was already sealed.

He would die a prisoner.

But that wasn't what made this so unexpected.

It might've been, for someone else. Certainly for a Nordic warrior. Every one of his brothers-in-arms dreamed of a glorious death in battle, one worthy of the Hall of Valor itself. That normally didn't involve ending up on the wrong end of an executioner's axe.

But this didn't mean much to Ralof. All it meant was that he would die with a little less freedom than otherwise, and how free was any Nordic warrior? How free could a man be, when the only way to that precious afterlife in Sovngarde was through blood and steel? Whether Ralof's hands were bound mattered little. He had lived his life shackled to his fate.

It was nothing to mourn. He'd end up in Sovngarde all the same. That much wasn't unexpected at all.

There were four other people in this wagon. One of them was the driver. Just some random legionnaire, probably wishing he could do something more exciting than carting prisoners around. The other three were in binds, like Ralof was. Farthest from him, diagonally across, was the reason he was sure they were due to be executed.

The Jarl of Windhelm, Ulfric Stormcloak himself. The leader of the rebellion against the Empire. The man to whom Ralof had sworn his loyalty.

It had been a swift, decisive ambush. Ulfric and his men had told no one of their departure from Windhelm, but they had not even left the hold of Eastmarch before the Empire found them. And when they had, there was no point in fighting back. The legionnaires had sprung up in a huge perimeter around them, no possible way out, and simply arrested everyone within the area. Piled them all into a couple wagons, sent them on their way to Divines knew where.

But they hadn't stopped with just the men in Stormcloak uniforms. Everyone inside their perimeter had been put in binds. Everyone.

Ralof hadn't expected to die alongside complete strangers.

The final two passengers in this wagon were nameless wanderers, bedraggled and unwashed, wearing nothing but rags. Ralof had never met either of them. One Nord, one Imperial. It seemed likely they had never met each other, either.

The man on his left, the Nord, had spent this whole ride just staring downward, refusing to speak. A gaunt, hollow-eyed man. He looked like he hadn't had a good meal in weeks. That, or he was just naturally scrawny. Not an old fellow, but not young either. His face was weathered and lined with premature age. If he'd ever served in an army, he'd left those days far behind him. He looked more like a beggar, or perhaps a thief. The two titles often went hand in hand.

But the man across from him, the Imperial, was a different story. He was slumped over on his side, fast asleep. He looked like a real mess. His whole body, clothing included, was all covered in dirt and grime. His hair was a scraggly, unkempt version of a shortened Nordic cut, solid black, shiny with grease. His face was more handsome than most, a sort of gentle, youthful look that might have looked almost boyish without all the stubble. And while his frame was average by most counts, his bare arms and shoulders showed he actually had a fair bit of muscle. If he were cleaned up a bit, he could've passed for a legionnaire.

None of it added up. Ralof had so many questions, and no one to answer them.

No one in this wagon, at least. The driver was obviously in no mood to chat with his prisoners. Jarl Ulfric's mouth was gagged, and prudently so—were he able to speak, his command of the Voice would have turned things around with just a few words. The Nord still wouldn't talk to anyone. He probably could have, but he was choosing not to. And the Imperial had been asleep pretty much the instant he'd sat down in the wagon. Judging by the darkness below his eyes, he hadn't slept for a long while. Judging by his general look, he'd spent that whole long while scrambling through the woods.

The sun had set and risen again, and now it was another beautiful morning. And here Ralof sat, looking at the men he would die alongside. It felt improper. He didn't even know their names.

Ever since he had first gotten into this wagon, the Throat of the World's peak had stood high above the treetops behind him. Precisely behind him, even though they had traveled for so long, the sun had set and risen once again. They were traveling west, circling around the vast obstacle of the southern mountainside.

It was a road seldom used. To reach most places in western Skyrim, from where they had started, it would have been faster to pass the Throat of the World by its north. Assuming they were to be executed publicly, there were few viable destinations. Falkreath, perhaps, or Helgen. Divines forbid his hometown of Riverwood.

And to think, he'd expected them to be taken all the way south to the Imperial City. At least he would be able to die in his homeland.

Up ahead, a wispy column of smoke rose high in the air. A settlement. Helgen, most likely, with the Throat of the World still so close by. They were heading straight for it. And they were close. Surprisingly close. Probably only a few minutes away.

Ralof's stomach turned as he thought about it. Their time in the mortal plane was running out.

And even now, the Imperial was sprawled sideways on the bench, refusing to wake up. Ralof wondered if this man understood what was coming to him. It wasn't easy to sleep through one's last hours.

The road started on a gentle downward slope. This was the final stretch. Jarl Ulfric turned and looked ahead as Ralof did. The two of them exchanged a knowing glance.

Ralof sighed to himself. Took one more look around him, then just leaned his elbows on his knees and waited. This was the end. It was a strange, unexpected end, but if this was to be his last day in Skyrim, then so be it. He would meet his brothers once again in Sovngarde. Perhaps this was not how he had expected to die, but he could accept his fate all the same.

When he glanced up again, the Imperial's eyes were open.

"Hey, you," said Ralof. "You're finally awake."


	2. Tor

Morndas, 9:50 AM, 18th of First Seed, 4E 202

Whiterun Hold

Many Nords claimed to live for adventure, but in Tor's case, he truly meant it. The nine holds of Skyrim weren't enough. He had climbed the bloodstained steps of the Adamantine Tower. He had trodden over the remains of what had once been known as the Ghostgate. He had personally witnessed—and done all he could to delay—the third razing of the city of Kvatch. He had stared death in the face a hundred times, and lived to tell the tale. He liked to imagine that by now, death's face had a few scars by his blade.

And then he had met a sweet, comely girl in Whiterun, and for the first time in decades, followed the beaten path—the path of the husband and father. With that, Tor's adventuring days had come to a surprisingly peaceful end. He had a family to look after now. Wandering the wild expanse of Skyrim was off the table. And so he had sold off the myriad weapons he had collected on his travels, and taken up the simple sword and shield of the Whiterun guard.

Besides the battleaxe he had found in that tomb in the Winterhold. The enchantment on that one was priceless.

Tor had kept in good fighting shape, of course. He was a disciplined man, and training was a simple fact of life. But guard duty was nothing like the perilous wonder he had known and loved. He patrolled the same paths every day. Over the past ten years, his entire time as a guard of Whiterun, he had faced no more danger than the odd pocket of bandits now and then. It might have helped keep him sharp, but it was a job like any other.

And then dawned a day that changed everything. That day was yesterday. When that Imperial wanderer had staggered into the hall of Dragonsreach, bearing news that the dragons had returned to the world, and that Helgen had been burnt to the ground. Tor had instantly realized what it meant.

The years of quiet service to his people were at an end. The days that would decide the future of his world had begun. And Tor was afraid.

Every last soul in Skyrim knew that the return of the World-Eater heralded the beginning of the end times. Helgen was only the beginning. The dragons could eclipse the destruction wrought by the Oblivion Crisis tenfold. The Prophecy of the Dragonborn was beginning to come true.

But Tor had little cause to believe that this was genuinely the world's end. Of course the dragons would not win this war. It was called the Prophecy of the Dragonborn—not of the World-Eater, but of the Dragonborn—for a reason. The Oblivion Crisis had been ended by mortal heroes, and so would this. It might take weeks, even months for the crisis to end, but Tor did not believe that the world was fated to end along with it.

Yes, he was afraid. But he was not afraid of the coming months. He was afraid of the coming _days_. These were what would decide the future of his world, and for a simple reason: Whiterun was next.

Every guard in Skyrim would probably think the same thing of their own hold capitals when they heard the news. But of all the cities in Skyrim, Whiterun was the only one the dragons were guaranteed to care about. Whiterun was the only one where a dragon had been imprisoned.

Dragonsreach was more than a city keep. It was also built to hold an entire dragon in chains. Long ago, the dragon Numinex had lived and died in captivity here. His skull now adorned the wall above the Jarl's throne. To the people of Whiterun, Dragonsreach was a symbol of the triumph of Nords over dragonkind. To the dragons… It was actually likely a symbol of the same. But to them, of course, it would be a grievous insult.

As long as Dragonsreach stood, that insult stood as well. As Tor understood it, the ways of dragons weren't all that unlike the honor of mortals. What sort of masters of the world could be imprisoned by their own subjects? How could the World-Eater command the respect of his brethren, when he allowed that sort of humiliation? It was a shame that this was happening now, and not fifteen years ago. Then, he would've felt at least a little ready to take on something as tremendous as a dragon. Now, he put on his uniform with the chilling thought that he simply wouldn't be able to face this.

But Whiterun still needed its guards to keep the peace, and so here he was, out on patrol, just like always. Another fine morning out on the plains. This road ran along the northern side of the White River, so every now and then, he'd pass by a bridge on his right-hand side. The man-made peak of Dragonsreach, that taunting reminder of the dragons' failures, stood tall against the sky on his left. Usually, there would be a scattering of travelers on their way to and from the city, but not today.

Yesterday, Commander Caius had responded to the threat of dragons by closing the city gates to all traffic, in or out. Tor still had no idea why. The order had been rescinded not long after. But it didn't even matter, because no one was traveling now. The open plains were no place to seek shelter from dragons. Tor was patrolling an empty road.

But he saw movement up ahead, at the next bridge. Just across from Honningbrew Meadery. He breathed in sharply, steadied himself, continued forward at his measured pace. Someone was going off the road, circling around to beside the bridge. Around, then down to the river rapids below.

It was a Khajiit. He could tell that almost immediately, and when he realized it, he felt a sudden pang of guilt. Even now, with the return of the dragons, the gates of Whiterun were closed to all Khajiit. If one of their caravans was traveling through the hold, there was little he could do to protect them.

"Hail, Khajiit," he called out, still too far away to properly converse.

The Khajiit stopped what he was doing and looked up in the voice's direction. It was strange to see one of this race all alone. Besides the traveling caravans, there were practically no Khajiit in Skyrim at all.

And this one wasn't dressed like a merchant. He was dressed like a priest, or a monk, in a simple hooded robe, colored an odd sort of drab orange that blended in with the sunlit earth. That was it. No passing this one by. Tor's curiosity had gotten the better of him. He had to find out who this mystery monk was, or he would regret it forever.

Once he had reached his side of the bridge, Tor realized what the Khajiit was doing down there. A nirnroot was growing on the riverbank. Even if he didn't recognize the leaves, which he did, the real giveaway was that strange aura of white light it projected. Nothing else looked like that. He could even hear that eerie sort of chiming sound over the gushing of the rapids.

"M'aiq has no qualms with collecting the nirnroot," the Khajiit said in his direction, before stooping down and plucking the plant from its spot. The glowing and humming cut out suddenly. "Some believe that the land is forever one nirnroot the poorer, for every one picked. M'aiq is not convinced of this."

Tor had definitely never heard of this Khajiit before. Ordinarily, he would've carried on with his patrol now, but not today. There was no point. Nothing was happening out here. Chances were the next noteworthy event was going to be a dragon trying to kill him.

He raised his voice just enough to be heard over the river. "This is a bad time to be hunting for nirnroots, traveler. Especially all by yourself."

M'aiq righted himself and looked up at Tor curiously.

"Haven't you heard? The dragons have returned. This isn't some jest. They're truly back. All of us are in danger."

A few long seconds passed where the two of them were just staring at each other. Then M'aiq climbed his way back up onto the bridge. In a sort of spontaneous, synchronized motion, Tor moved to meet him halfway across. A few more seconds of staring came and went, but this time about ten feet apart from one another.

M'aiq smiled wryly. "If dragons do attack, M'aiq is not afraid. M'aiq will simply hide. Against a dragon, even hiding behind a tree may be enough."

Tor disliked judging races by their common reputations, but he had to wonder if this fellow had been drinking any skooma. Hiding behind a tree. He wouldn't have been able to come up with an idea like that even if he tried.

"I don't suppose you could tell me what a tree will do for you?"

"It will keep you safe. When faced with running or hiding, always hide from a dragon. By this method, M'aiq will stay alive."

"That… Doesn't sound like it would work."

"It matters little." The Khajiit shrugged. "M'aiq is far too important to die."

"Right. I see." Tor nodded slowly. This fellow was clearly not right in the head. But maybe there was a grain of truth to that bit about hiding. He wasn't eager to put it to the test. "Where do you plan to travel?"

"M'aiq wanders where he pleases. Once, M'aiq bought a horse, but it made little difference for traveling."

"Where's your horse now?"

"Dead," M'aiq said, his face hard and grim. "M'aiq mistakenly rode it over a ledge."

Tor said nothing.

"Horses are not easy to look after. You must know this. You travel on foot, as we all do."

The Khajiit wasn't wrong, at least. But Tor really didn't have time for this. His curiosity had been sated, as much as it ever would be here. He didn't want to spend his morning standing here chatting with an utter madman.

"Well, as much as I'd like to stay and talk, I'd better return to my duties," he said. "It is my honor to have crossed paths with you, M'aiq."

At least the fellow seemed to take it well enough. "M'aiq would normally wish that you walk on warm sands. But if Nords yearned for the warmth, they would not live here. May you walk upon… Upon sands as warm or cold as you see fit."

Tor nodded respectfully and turned back to the silhouette of Dragonsreach. As he walked back onto the road, though, he smirked beneath his visor. He was just living out another strange story to tell his children.

"One more thing," Maiq's voice called out behind him.

Of course.

He looked over his shoulder to see the Khajiit still standing in the middle of the bridge. He had one hand outstretched, like he was trying to take Tor by the arm from twenty feet away.

"Have you heard anything of the warrior from Helgen?"

Tor turned the rest of the way. He'd just known. Of course there would be one more thing. One last little detail, and the only one in the whole encounter that would matter. He knew exactly whom M'aiq was talking about.

"The one who brought the news of the dragon attack, aye," Tor said. "Imperial fellow. Have you seen him?"

"M'aiq heard that he is more than a mere warrior. That he is far more experienced than most, and that he has seen the world in ways that few have. He may well have a part in things to come. In your position, M'aiq would keep an eye out for him. M'aiq is sure you and he have something in common."

He hadn't looked like much when he showed up in Dragonsreach. Just some scruffy young man in ill-fitting armor. But something inside Tor stirred when he heard that. Something that had lain dormant for the past ten years. "Where did you hear that?"

M'aiq said nothing. Tor lingered for a few seconds, then started to turn away once again. Talking to this Khajiit had been a fruitless effort. None of this had made any sense. Not even this talk of the man from Helgen. And yet…

He stopped himself long enough for one last reply.

"I used to be an adventurer like him. But then I took a long look at where my life was going."

With that, the two parted ways.

Tor walked away feeling strangely enlightened. He didn't know why.

And to think, when he joined the guard, he thought he was putting his days worthy of remembrance behind him. Maybe he just wasn't lucky enough for the quiet life. Or maybe no one really was, these days. Either way, as long as Tor lived in this world, he'd keep adding new chapters to his tale… And hoping that tomorrow, he would still live to tell it.


	3. Nirya

Middas, 7:32 PM, 20th of Last Seed, 4E 201

College of Winterhold

Some poor souls liked to believe that the College of Winterhold was above other schools of magic. They liked to look down on groups like the Synod and the College of Whispers, claiming that in Winterhold, the way of politics held no ground. But Nirya knew better. Wherever there was power, there were those who wanted more of it. And magic was a powerful force indeed. Whoever controlled the College of Winterhold controlled one of the greatest centers of power in Skyrim.

Nirya was sure the Arch-Mage knew that. If he didn't, he wouldn't put so much energy into discouraging the students and staff from the game of politics. It was clever, really. The best way to win a competition was to prevent one's opponents from even participating to begin with.

The others might have been fooled, those hopeless buffoons, but not her. She knew better. She never lost sight of the real goals. It made her some enemies here and there, of course. There was one enemy in particular. Her rival, in a sense. Faralda. A catty, jealous elf. The only other Altmer on the staff, and a spiteful inferior if there ever was one. A thorn in her side, certainly. But it was no matter.

Nirya knew what she was doing, even if she had to cast aside everyone else's ways in the process. Simply put, her ways were better.

For example, the Hall of the Elements. The largest of the three halls of the college, and officially, the space used for spell practice, group lessons, and the like. Unofficially, a social hub for everyone who resided here. This evening, Nirya stood alone in the hall in question, hands clasped behind her back, gazing into the glowing blue pool in the round chamber's very center.

Truth be told, the atmosphere in this place was altogether less than pleasant. The air was much colder than in either of the other two halls, given that those were living quarters and this was not. The lighting was colder as well. All of the stone—and every surface in here was some variety of stone—appeared oddly bluish, as did Nirya herself, which against her golden Altmer skin, gave her the greyish pallor of a corpse. And being all alone in such a large room, the vaulted ceiling so very high above, gave her the eerie, prickling sensation that she was being watched.

Still, it meant that if anyone came wandering by, she had them to herself. It was a rare opportunity with anyone in such a close-knit space, a moment of private conversation. Eventually, Nirya knew, this would pay off. And as she heard the doors open behind her, and turned to see who was entering, she realized that it would likely pay off tonight.

The Altmer would have been recognizable by his robes if nothing else. He made no attempt whatsoever to blend in with the College of Winterhold's resident mages. Whereas their standard dress was little more than plain robes of drab blue and pale gray, this elf's robes were a stark, imposing statement of black and gold, neatly covering every inch of him below his neck. No one's attire looked remotely like his. But the reverse was also true. For as little of his body as was ever seen, he would have been just as recognizable by his facial features, because he was the most beautiful mer Nirya had ever seen.

His features were sharp, but not aquiline; mature, but not aged. Even through his robes, his body was clearly lithe and slender and strong. He carried himself with an air of unyielding confidence, and even the look on his face conveyed a feeling of cool, calculating wisdom. And his hair was nearly the exact same style as Nirya's. The same swept-back look, just an inch or two shorter. Under other circumstances, Nirya might have approached him very differently.

Unfortunately, those black and gold robes were the uniform of a Thalmor mage. He was an outsider, interfering in the College's affairs. He was an adversary. But everyone in the College was an adversary on some level. He was distinct from the others not because he was some sort of threat, but because he was an opportunity.

This was the first time they would be alone together. Nirya needed to be calm. And she needed to handle herself carefully. First, she would need to determine what this elf had heard about her already. After all, she did have enemies in the College, and they would surely do all they could to undermine her reputation. She could only pray that her one worst foe had not gotten to him first.

"Good evening, Ancano," she said over her shoulder, not fully turned away from the pool. She couldn't look too eager. That would drive him away. He had to feel like he was earning her favor just as much as she was earning his.

"Good evening… ah…" The Altmer walked up beside her, glancing briefly down at the glowing pool before turning to look at her face. He squinted inquisitively for a moment. "Faralda?"

Nirya's breath caught in her throat. She hoped the surge of heat she was feeling wasn't appearing as a blush. Ancano was obviously testing her. That was fair. This was their first encounter, and they were still adversaries. "Nirya," she said, quite evenly. "Faralda… May have mentioned me."

"Nirya. Yes." Ancano nodded curtly, then folded his arms and turned his attention back to the pool. A faint column of blue light shone above the water, tapering off like a tranquil magical simulacrum of a flame. The source of the room's blue lighting, naturally. Ancano's complexion fared no better than her own, but his eyes retained their bright golden hue. Nirya did her best not to stare. He was even more handsome up close.

A few seconds went by in silence. She had to ask. This whole conversation depended on it. "…Has she?"

"Hm?" This time, Ancano did not turn to her.

"Has Faralda mentioned me to you?"

"No, I believe not." Ancano breathed in for another sentence, then paused, then spoke. "I must apologize for having mistaken you for her. I should have noticed. Your stature is quite… Distinctive, for an Altmer."

Again, the rush of heat. Nirya's lips tightened. It was true that her height was not quite as pronounced as others of her race. A fact which had no bearing on her competence as a mage, or her attractiveness as an elf, of course. But she wondered what else Ancano was thinking of right then. She wanted to be ready for it.

"So, how have you…" She cleared her throat, more as a social gesture than from necessity. "Liked it here? At the College of Winterhold, thus far?"

"I have been at your institution for ten days," Ancano spoke. "I had hoped that you and your colleagues would be on a level comparable with my own. So far, they are not."

She had to admire how well he was playing his status. The unknown stranger, whose knowledge and talent were left only to speculation, making perfect use of his mysterious nature. His magical prowess remained to be seen, but in the social aspect of things, he would make a worthy ally.

But first, she had to prove herself, just as Ancano had done for himself. "I would advise you to keep an open mind. Some of us are higher in quality than others."

"One would hope."

"Our college is a center of magical study. We are here outside the most remote hold capital in Skyrim, where we can be undisturbed by political struggles. If you came expecting us to accommodate such things, like you would with your own colleagues, I can see why you would be disappointed—"

Suddenly, Ancano turned towards her, scowling. "Have you ever been to _any_ of the schools in Alinor?"

"No, of course not—"

"Then do not tell me what I should expect from my colleagues."

Nirya was better than this. She wouldn't let Ancano simply trod all over her. She folded her arms like he was doing, and adopted a knowing smirk. "Yes, act like you don't want my favor. If you didn't, you wouldn't have taken the time to come speak with me."

Ancano paused for a moment. Too long of a moment. Nirya realized that she had regained the upper hand, and her smirk became much more genuine. His response was a simple, "What use is your favor to me?"

"I can cooperate with you. Of course you have been disappointed so far. We at the College of Winterhold are reluctant to share our goings-on with outsiders. But for the right compensation, I am willing to cooperate with you. And able."

No reply.

It was time to play her winning card. "And you should desire my cooperation. Let us be perfectly clear here. I know what you've come here for. I know you're spying on us on the Thalmor's behalf."

Ancano gave her a sidelong look. "What gave it away? The Thalmor uniform?"

Nirya had to admit, she didn't expect him to confess so casually. But it was a smart move. Making it seem like something everyone would know, making her insight look like less of a victory. But victory was already hers. He had not only confirmed her accusation, but was still talking to her.

"I will tell you what you wish to know. The Thalmor rewards those who follow its interests, do they not?" Nirya raised her eyebrows. "I'm certain you can afford to share some of your vast magical knowledge with one mage in Winterhold."

Ancano stared intently into the pool in front of him. Once more, no reply. That was fine. He could have all the time he needed to concoct his final answer. Nirya already knew what it would be. With a few choice words, she had positioned herself to outpace every other resident of the college. It was like Savos was fond of saying—what she would learn would last her a lifetime. She could afford to wait a minute for Ancano to finalize their deal.

Eventually, he did turn towards her, ready to speak. She looked into his beautiful, golden eyes, and saw that look of wisdom he so often had. "So," he said. "You wish for us to be perfectly clear. Yes?"

Nirya nodded obligingly. All he had to do was agree. Besides that, his exact wording didn't matter.

"You were wrong, Nirya. You thought I stopped here because I desired to gain your cooperation." He shook his head. "I stopped here because I desired to assess you. You would betray the trust of all of your colleagues. You would willingly immerse yourself in what you believe to be a political conflict. You, in this politically irrelevant college, in this lifeless corner of the world. You, in this place purported to be a place of pure magical study. My assessment is done."

And with that, Ancano turned on his heel and started for the courtyard doors.

On his way out, he turned back for one last remark. "I had hoped that you and your colleagues would be on a level comparable with my own. _You_ are not."

Nirya was left alone once again in the Hall of the Elements. Alone, with her own thoughts.

So Faralda _had_ gotten to him first.


	4. Greta

Tirdas, 3:21 PM, 19th of Last Seed, 4E 202

Temple of the Divines

It really was unfortunate, the way things had gone. The Temple of the Divines was a place for solace, and mercy, and hope. It was a place where all believers were greeted with open arms. But Greta could no longer go there in peace. Not now.

If any one thing had gone differently, this wouldn't have been a problem. If Solitude weren't the Imperial capital in Skyrim, for one. Or if the Temple of the Divines hadn't been built into the walls of the Imperial Legion's Castle Dour. Or if worship of Talos hadn't been outlawed by the Empire. Or if Ulfric Stormcloak hadn't slain the High King of Skyrim in this very city. Or if her brother, her honorable Nord brother, hadn't been on duty at the gate when Ulfric tried to flee. But everything had gone the way it had gone. And now when Greta went to the Temple of the Divines, she had to pass through the home of her brother's killers.

She wouldn't have gone at all without her brother's amulet. It wasn't really to remember him. It was to remember what he died for. If she were seen wearing this little symbol around her neck, she could be arrested. Executed, just like he had been. Outlawing Talos worship was only the beginning of the Empire's threat to Nordic life. Roggvir had died trying to uphold that way of life.

But now, courtesy of her daughter Svari and a particularly generous stranger, she had the amulet. One more thing that could have gone differently, but hadn't. And she also had the good sense to tuck the amulet into her shirt. To the Temple of the Divines she went.

No sooner had she even stepped out her door, though, than a familiar voice called out to her. "Greta! There you are."

The voice came from just up the street. Greta turned to see a man leaning against the side of the house next door, well in the shade. A beggar, wearing old, tattered gray rags, smudged with dirt and dust. An older man. Bald head, weathered skin. Noster Eagle-Eye, he was called. Greta had seen him a few times over by the shops.

From what little she'd heard, this man had served in the Imperial Legion some time back. There were many like him, soldiers who came home to find nothing waiting for them, but for some reason Noster had always stood out. Perhaps it was simply because he had been here for so long.

Greta closed the door behind her, then stepped down onto the road. "What are you doing here, Noster?"

Noster pushed himself off the wall and walked a couple paces towards her, slowly. "I thought I'd pay my respects. I'm so sorry for your loss, Greta."

"I've heard that a lot these days," Greta said, but she felt strange about it. She'd had every friend and acquaintance in the city stopping by her house at one point or another. But Noster was just some penniless beggar. More or less a total stranger. He had no reason to even care about this.

Noster glanced down the street. It was pretty much a straight line from here to Castle Dour's east gatehouse. Houses along the left and right. A fairly busy street. "Are you headed someplace?"

"I was planning on visiting the temple," she said, warily. "Why?"

"Is it all right if I walk with you?"

He had to be up to something. No beggar would go so far out of their way to offer condolence to a random townsperson. But it would have been more trouble than it was worth to try to make him leave, so Greta simply nodded and started out into the street.

Noster fell in alongside her. The way he walked was like a guard on duty. All ordered and confident. "I was there for the execution," he said. "That was awful to watch. But I was there for Jarl Ulfric's escape from the city as well."

"You were?" Greta turned towards him, eyebrows raised. This was not going the way she had expected. He wasn't asking her for money, or anything else. Besides her attention, anyway.

"Your brother Roggvir," Noster said. "He made a choice. I don't know if I would have made the same one. But he took a stand. He must have known what would happen to him. That was very brave."

Very kind words. But something was still going on here. "What choice would you have made, Noster?"

It was a fairly quiet afternoon in Solitude. This street ran straight from Castle Dour to the Blue Palace, but there were only a few passersby very near to them.

Noster shrugged. "Whichever I thought would save the most lives. If I had been in Roggvir's shoes, and I closed the gate to Ulfric, I would have defied Nordic tradition. From a certain point of view, I would be condemning an innocent man to death." He paused for a moment. "But now Skyrim is at war with itself. Have you ever seen war in action, Greta? Been to a battlefield after the fighting was over?"

Greta shook her head.

"It's horrific. No one should ever have to go through that. But now a lot of good men and women are going to die. It's all so… Senseless. I don't even understand why we're fighting each other. We shouldn't have to."

Greta had had enough at this point. Noster was a legionnaire at heart, that was for sure. He must have known why Ulfric Stormcloak had taken up arms against the Empire. But he didn't even seem to care. "What sort of condolence is this? Are you telling me my brother did the wrong thing, letting Ulfric free?"

"Honestly? I think at this point in time, every choice is the wrong one. Roggvir made a hard choice. It was the Empire's place to judge him by their law, and now it's the gods' place to judge him by their will. As for me, all I can ask of anyone is that they do what they believe is right. Roggvir did just that."

"What do you think of the Empire, Noster?"

"What?"

"Ruling over us. The Empire today might not be the Empire you served during the Great War."

"No, I'm… I'm rather sure that it is." Noster made to speak, then paused. "This is about Talos, isn't it? That's what this is about for you. The Empire, treading on us Nords. That whole thing."

Greta said nothing. Castle Dour loomed at the end of the road. They'd already closed most of the distance.

"It's a bad situation, I know," Noster said. "It makes the Empire look bad. But don't forget who the real foe is. The Great War never really ended. It's the Empire versus the Aldmeri Dominion. Can you imagine how happy they are, that the Empire is spilling its own blood _for_ them?"

_And all because my brother did what he thought was right._ Maybe Noster was a legionnaire at heart. Maybe there wasn't anything wrong with that. Greta didn't know anymore.

She stopped where she was, reached to her belt, and unfastened her coin purse. Before Noster could react, she pressed the whole thing into his arms.

"What—"

"Take it," she said. "Just take it. Take it and… Stay alive. Enough people are dead as it is. Now please leave me alone."

Greta left Noster there, standing in the middle of the road with a bag of gold septims in his hands. He said something thankful to her, but she already wasn't listening. She couldn't even think straight. All she knew was that that had felt like the right thing to do. She imagined Noster would approve of that much.

Now it was time to visit the Temple of the Divines. Greta hadn't been here in weeks. It felt like much longer than that.

Just looking at the entrance to Castle Dour put a bad taste in her mouth. As she went in through the gatehouse arch, she passed right underneath one of those big red banners with the wolf of Haafingar emblazoned on it. It shared its ledge with scraggly curtains of green hanging moss. Such a perfect symbol of the Empire's decay.

Inside the courtyard, the guards were doing their drills, like normal. They were just part of the scenery. Something to ignore. But as she walked by, Greta realized that the one supervising them was Captain Aldis. The very man who oversaw Roggvir's execution. Greta felt a terrible, creeping chill deep in her chest.

Aldis was a good man. He had understood. It had meant a whole lot to her, but now… Greta looked downward and quickened her pace. The temple was just ahead. She could make it. Everything was piling up in her head, it was getting unbearable, but she could fix it once she was in the temple. It was safe there.

There was another, smaller courtyard, separated by another, smaller pair of arches. This was no longer the place of the Legion. This was the place of the Divines. The courtyard was something of an outdoor chapel. Two columns of pews, in front of a pair of ornate chairs. All empty. Greta walked alongside them to the temple doors. She'd traveled this exact path thousands of times. In some ways, it felt exactly the same as always. But even if this temple didn't change, Greta herself certainly could.

The doors were set in a narrowed recess in the courtyard, separated by a pair of braziers, and lined with flowerbeds. They were wide open. Inside, the temple was all dark stone and soft light. Greta's eyes hadn't adjusted yet. She could barely see what was in there. In fact, she didn't recognize the two figures standing there until she was practically right at the entrance. An Altmer, very tall, in black and gold robes. Standing right over the temple priest, right in the middle of the sanctuary.

Greta barely held in a gasp. She managed to turn aside just in time to not walk in through the doors. She ended up with her back to the wall just by the door, hands plastered on the stone bricks down at her sides. The two in there were talking. She could hear their voices around the corner, just barely. They hadn't noticed her.

"Your leadership demands an explanation, Freir," said the Altmer.

"_My _leadership?" Freir sounded upset. Scared, even. "We are no part of your hierarchy! The Temple of the Divines has always been—"

"You. You serve the Empire. The Empire cooperates with the Thalmor. You obey me."

By the Nine, the Thalmor were here. In the Temple of the Divines. That chill came right back, so much worse this time. One hand clutched over the amulet beneath her shirt. Her hands were numb. She couldn't feel what she was holding. Her heart was pounding. Everything had just become a nightmare.

They were still talking. "I promise you, I had nothing to do with this heresy! We will report any that we find. Please."

"This is the third Talos worshiper that we've discovered in your very temple in the past month. We should put the shrine back just to see who decides to pray to it."

"No, that's not—sir, I don't know what you expect from me. It is not within my authority to interrogate everyone who walks into this temple. Is that what you want for me to do?"

"A little more vigilance from you would suffice. The people of Solitude seem to think that the Thalmor headquarters in Castle Dour is simply some spare empty rooms. Contrary to your belief, we are here, and we intend to enforce the treaty your Empire signed."

Noster's words were repeating in Greta's head. The Great War never really ended. Had he known what she would find here? This was too perfect. This was too awful.

"That is your prerogative. But I do not understand what you want me to do about this. I am already doing all I can!"

There was a loud crack. Freir cried out. Something heavy thudded on the floor. Greta's breath caught in her throat.

"All you can do, then, is not enough," said the Altmer. "If you cannot keep the worshipers of Talos out of your own temple, then you will serve as an example to those who would insult the Eight Divines."

"What are you talking about—" Freir gasped. "No! No, you can't!"

Greta didn't wait to hear the rest. She just ran. She ran as fast as her legs would carry her. Straight through the courtyards, then out onto the street, then around the first corner she could find, then around another, then around another, weaving through buildings, rushing past everyone around her, putting distance between herself and the temple. By the time she stopped running, her chest was heaving and her lungs were burning. She didn't even know where she'd run to. Some back alley. She was alone.

Nothing made sense anymore. What had she even just witnessed? That Thalmor officer hadn't even been doing anything to enforce the ban. He'd just been tormenting Freir for nothing. And no one was going to stop him.

The Great War hadn't ended. This was no place to ride it out. Greta had to leave Solitude. She had to leave today. Find her husband and daughter, leave the city with them, and find someplace safe to stay. Someplace where she could ride out the coming months, someplace that wouldn't be under attack. Perhaps Whiterun.


	5. Aventus

Middas, 9:01 PM, 13th of First Seed, 4E 201

Honorhall Orphanage

They called her Grelod the Kind. But she wasn't kind at all. She was the cruelest person in the whole world. She ran Honorhall Orphanage, in Riften. Orphans from all over Skyrim ended up there. Everyone wanted to send orphans to a place run by a person with 'the Kind' in their name. Orphans would have good lives there.

That was what everyone thought. But Grelod the Kind didn't give anyone good lives. She gave them miserable lives.

Aventus was where he was now because of Grelod the Kind.

He had been born in Windhelm. He had grown up there. It was a nice city. Aventus heard some cities in Skyrim were bad places, but Jarl Ulfric always took care of them in Windhelm. He had liked it there.

But then his mother had gotten sick, and she hadn't gotten better. The priests tried to help her, but it didn't work. After an entire year of awful waiting, his mother died. She actually died. Aventus had thought his life couldn't get any worse. He didn't know what to do. Jarl Ulfric told him he couldn't live in Windhelm anymore, because he didn't have any adults to take care of him. So he had to be taken to Riften, where Honorhall Orphanage was.

The guards told him that he'd have a good life there. It was run by a lady called Grelod the Kind, and if someone had a reputation for being kind, clearly they would be able to help him. Riften wasn't as good to live in as Windhelm. The Thieves Guild was there, and a woman called Maven Black-Briar, who owned a big meadery. But he would be safe from all of that, because Grelod the Kind would be there for him. Aventus had believed them. He didn't know what to do, and it seemed to make sense.

But when he arrived at Honorhall Orphanage, everything turned upside-down. He'd thought his life couldn't have gotten worse. He was wrong. The people in Riften thought Grelod the Kind's name was a kind of a sarcastic joke. The only reason the guards didn't arrest her was because she hadn't killed anyone. No wonder orphans from all over Skyrim came here. Orphans from far away were the _only_ ones to come here. Any orphaned kids who had grown up in Riften knew better.

Aventus' mother had never hit him. She had gotten angry at him sometimes, when he misbehaved, but she had never punished him by hitting him. In Honorhall Orphanage, Grelod beat the orphans whether they had misbehaved or not. If they misbehaved, she just beat them even more. And if an orphan made her really angry, she'd put them in the room. Aventus didn't like to think about the room.

Grelod was a very old woman. Her arms were skinny, and her face was sunken and always angry-looking. She could hit really hard for someone her age. The first day he got there, Grelod had slapped him across the face for asking if he could lie down. He had just been tired from the trip to Riften. He had been so shocked that he hadn't even been able to react.

He had been hit a lot more in the weeks after that. If it weren't for Constance, he might have died. Constance was Grelod's assistant. She was a lot younger, and nicer. Grelod would hit the orphans, and Constance would bandage them up. That was how it went, every day. Aventus was glad that Constance was there. But a very shameful part of him wasn't. If Grelod accidentally killed one of the orphans by beating them too badly, she would go to prison. She couldn't run the orphanage from there.

Aventus was surrounded by other kids here, but he was very lonely. None of the orphans ever wanted to talk to him or play with him. They didn't want to do anything. It didn't take long for Aventus to discover why. Grelod didn't allow the orphans to be adopted. They would stay here until they came of age, and then be thrown out onto the streets.

Grelod the Kind wasn't kind at all. She was the cruelest person in the world. And Honorhall Orphanage wasn't an orphanage. It was a prison for children.

One night, when Aventus went to bed, something had been wrong with his pillow. He couldn't get comfortable on it. It was so lumpy. But it always was, a little bit. He must have taken half an hour to realize that something was underneath it. When he looked, he found a big piece of linen rolled up, with a little note on top.

His very first thought was that this was a prank. One of the other orphans just felt like making it hard for him to sleep. Sometimes they did things like this. Little things, that no one would find about. Sometimes they were very cruel. Never as cruel as Grelod, of course. But Aventus didn't like the idea that the other orphans would act that way when they were grown up.

He'd barely been able to read the note. It was so dark in here. The only light came from the embers in the fireplace. But his bed was right by it. The glow had been just enough for him to read the letters on the paper. It read, "You know what to do."

Aventus quietly unrolled the linen on his bedsheet. Inside was a dagger.

It was a real one. Not a toy. He clapped his hand over his mouth so he wouldn't make any noise. Someone had put a real weapon under his pillow. And they were right, whoever they were. He knew exactly what he was supposed to do with this.

His heart was hammering so hard, he thought he might faint. This couldn't be real. Someone wanted him to commit murder. He didn't even know if he could do that.

And if if he did this, if he could even pull it off, his life would never be the same. His mind was racing. He didn't want to grow up as a killer. He wouldn't be able to stay here, in Riften. And he wouldn't be able to return home to Windhelm. Even if the guards in Windhelm didn't arrest him, they'd probably try to send him back here. Back to the orphanage.

But then Aventus realized, his life had already been ruined just by coming here. He was going to spend over five years here before Grelod would let him go. He really didn't have anything to lose. And Grelod really deserved anything Aventus tried to do to her.

Before tonight, he hadn't had anything on his side at all. Now he had a dagger. Just a sharp piece of steel, glittering orange in the light from the fireplace. This was enough for him to change his life. He could change his life tonight. If he could bring himself to do it.

This seriously didn't feel real. Aventus felt like he was asleep already. Like this was a dream. He couldn't possibly be actually going through this. But for the sake of just making sure, Aventus tried to think of what he would've done if this _weren't_ a dream. Firstly, he'd want to put this dagger to use.

His hands were trembling too hard for him to safely pick it up. He had to spend a minute just kneeling on his bed and breathing. Very quietly. All of the orphans slept in one big room together, each in their own beds. Orphans on his left, orphans on his right. He tried not to make any noise. If any of them woke up now, he'd never get his chance.

Eventually, he'd gotten steady enough to put his hand around the dagger's handle. It was a simple leather wrapping, cold to the touch. The dagger was just plain, simple steel. A little heavier than he expected. He pressed the dagger's point against the linen wrap, then stopped. He'd wanted to test out the blade, to see if it was sharp enough, but this was just making him feel sick. If this was a test, then the linen wrap was supposed to be like human skin. He was practicing stabbing a person.

It didn't matter. This thing was obviously sharp enough. He just had to get himself out of bed.

Aventus wasn't stupid. He knew that once he did it, he'd have to leave right away. So he very slowly got out of his night clothes and put on his normal outfit, all without leaving his bed. The only thing he didn't put on was his shoes. He didn't want to make any noise on the floorboards.

There were four exits out of this room. One went to the common room. The second went to a little outdoor sort of courtyard. The third went to _the_ room. The last went to Grelod's bedroom. The way to the common room was an open arch, but all three other exits were closed off by double doors. But it wasn't really a problem. The only locked door at night was the front door, out in the common room. The rest were just closed.

Aventus eased out of bed, the dagger tight in his hand. The floorboards in here were so creaky. Even crawling on all fours, he had trouble not making any noise. He might as well have just put his shoes on. He gave up after about ten seconds and got back on his feet. If Grelod were going to hear him out here, she would have already.

He got halfway to the double doors when he heard a gasp to his right. It was Samuel. One of the other orphans. Aventus had never really spoken much with him. But right then, he was sitting upright in his bed, staring right at Aventus, wide-eyed.

Aventus pointed the dagger straight at Samuel and put a finger to his lips. His dagger hand was shaking all over the place. But he could do this. He knew he could. Samuel nodded fearfully, and didn't make any more sound.

These doors were big and heavy. When Aventus opened them, they were going to creak loud enough to wake everyone up. That was just a fact. He wouldn't be able to sneak around for this. He just had to walk in there and do it.

He really wasn't sure if this was a good idea. But he wasn't going to give himself the time to think it out.

His free hand went to the double doors, right at the crack between them. He took a deep breath in, and held it for a moment. Now was the time. He wasn't going to let himself think.

With a big, single shove, Aventus threw the doors open and strode right in. Sure enough, Grelod was laying in bed, asleep. And sure enough, the noise woke her up. The old crone barely had time to look up at him. He went right up to her with the dagger raised high, and plunged it down.

It felt like stabbing a slab of raw meat with a table knife. But the slab of meat was still moving. Grelod let out an ear-splitting screech, loud enough to make Aventus wince, and raised a hand to strike him. Aventus yanked the dagger out and brought it back down again. Grelod's hand faltered. He pulled it out again, and stabbed her again. And again, and again. He didn't say anything, he didn't even shout at her like a warrior would. He just grunted under his breath and kept going. Everything was getting sticky and wet. He could barely see what he was doing.

Eventually, he was pretty sure Grelod wasn't moving anymore. He pulled the dagger out one last time, and looked down at his work. He could barely see in here, but he knew Grelod the Kind was dead.

He couldn't even process what that meant. He'd just done it. This whole thing didn't seem even close to real.

It didn't feel to him like he'd been standing there that long. But maybe he had, because he heard footsteps coming through the children's room. Loud, and fast. Adult. That would be Constance.

When Aventus turned around, he realized all the other orphans were staring in at him. He couldn't really see their faces. Then Constance appeared above them, a lantern in one hand, casting a harsh yellow light on him.

He looked down at himself. The dagger in his hand was covered in bright red blood. So was his hand itself.

Constance screamed at the top of her lungs and ran back away. Even once she'd left the room, she was still screaming. Aventus didn't even know where she'd gone.

The other orphans were still looking at him, sort of expectantly. But he didn't know what to say to them. This felt like a dream.

But if this _weren't _a dream, what would Aventus have done next?

Without saying a word, he started looking around for the key for the front doors. It didn't take long to find. He grabbed it out of the dresser, along with Grelod's coin purse. He didn't even know what he was doing. He just had to get out of here.

The orphans were all crowded around the door, but they weren't stepping inside. Like this was some kind of forbidden area, and they just weren't allowed in. Even though the person who would've punished them was dead. Aventus just muttered, "Outta my way," and they all wordlessly made room for him to come through.

He felt like he was going to faint again. But this was no time for him to fall apart. He couldn't fall apart, he couldn't think. He had to act, and quickly. This must have been how warriors felt during battles. Maybe warriors had to ignore that they felt like they were dreaming, too.

On the way out, Aventus remembered to put his shoes on. He just stepped into them and kept on going. When he got to the front door, out in the common room, he fumbled with the key in his left hand and fit it in the lock. This was his first time unlocking the doors to Honorhall Orphanage. Probably the last, too. He wouldn't miss this place.

Outside, it was cold and dark. Like Windhelm, sort of. But Windhelm was all snowy stone. This was just wood. Practically the entire city of Riften was made of wood. All the buildings were just fancy log cabins. It was also all built on top of a river, which was strange. It cut right through town. Most of the buildings were on a sort of second story above the river. Instead of sloping down to the riverbank, there was just a lower level of buildings sandwiched between the rest of the city and the waterline. Houses, mostly. Places for boats to dock at. A lot of stuff that Aventus didn't care about.

There weren't many people out here. No one seemed to notice Aventus stepping out of the orphanage doors. On his right were the city gates. On his left was the river. Straight ahead was the market square.

He had to get out of Riften, immediately. That meant he wasn't going to start wandering around in the city. The gates were just a stone's throw away, but they were manned by guards. In fact, as Aventus looked now, a couple men in guard uniforms were standing there with torches. They looked like they were watching him.

On his left was the river. The actual water was ten feet below. Looking across, Aventus just saw a gap in the ground between him and the far side of the road. There was a stairway right in front of him, down to the lower level. If he went down there, he could get in one of the boats moored along the boardwalk, and row his way out.

One of the guards motioned towards him. The other started walking in his direction.

So much for the boat idea, then. There was no time. They would catch him. He had to make a new plan, right now. If he weren't dreaming, what would he have done right now?

Aventus leaned over the edge of the staircase. It was a long drop to the water. A long, long drop. At this time of night, the river was glimmering black. It looked as cold as ice. But he had to act. No time to panic, no time to think. And so Aventus acted.

The black river water rushed up to meet him.

Twelve hours later, Aventus was sitting in the back of a horsedrawn cart, on top of a few big barrels of mead. He was wearing a clean, dry set of clothes. His pockets were empty.

He hadn't ended up spending much time at all in the water. He'd gotten back out right at the Riften docks, on the wooden piers and stairs. He hadn't been able to even feel his fingers or toes, he'd been so cold. But he was outside the city, which meant he could circle around to in front of the main gates. That was where the stables were.

The people working there had been happy to help him, after he'd shown them all the gold he was willing to give them. Now he was riding along to Falkreath. One of the stable hands said he knew some tradesman there who could use Aventus as an apprentice.

That sounded good enough. Aventus didn't really care where he went, as long as it wasn't Riften or Windhelm. Or the afterlife.

It was a long, long ride. His only company was the carriage driver, who was a Nord man named Sigaar. He seemed to know a lot about Skyrim. He had something to say about everything they found on the road. "That's Goldenglow Estate, that is. We're about as close to it now as the Black-Briars will ever let us be," he'd say, pointing off to the left, at a distant bump of land in the middle of a huge lake. They spent a couple days just getting past that lake. Or, "This over here is Heartwood Mill," he'd say, pointing at a lumber mill with a waterwheel on a river, just upstream of the bridge they were crossing on. "Wish they got more business. They're really good people." Aventus didn't mind all the talking. Sigaar was just being friendly. Besides, he'd never gotten to just explore Skyrim before. It was all fascinating to him.

But the thing that really stood out was on the horizon. A huge, steep mountain, standing high above everything else. The Throat of the World. This was his first time Aventus had ever seen it with his own eyes. He'd read that this was the tallest mountain in Tamriel, and he believed it. It made normal mountains look like shrubs next to an evergreen tree. It was impossibly huge. And every day they traveled, it got bigger.

Sigaar hadn't had a lot to say about it, though. All he knew was that the legendary Greybeards lived near the top of the mountain, in the ancient temple of High Hrothgar. And that for some reason, the very peak of the mountain was always hidden in the clouds, even when the rest of the sky was clear. Very few people went up to High Hrothgar. No one went up to the peak.

Every morning, Aventus and Sigaar had breakfast around a little fire, and every night, they went to sleep under the stars. Their surroundings changed constantly. There were forests, and rivers, and hills, and valleys. Every now and then, they passed other travelers on the road. Hunters, mainly, and other traders. For Sigaar, this was just a regular trip, but for Aventus, it was the start of a new life. He loved every minute of it. He couldn't even bring himself to feel bad about how he'd left Honorhall. He knew he'd done the right thing.

While Sigaar told Aventus about their surroundings, Aventus told Sigaar about all the things he'd gone through. How he'd grown up in Windhelm, and then been forced to come to Riften. Then the whole thing with the orphanage, from start to finish. He hadn't said a word about it when he'd first gone to the stables. This was his first time telling the story. It turned out that Sigaar already knew about Grelod the Kind, like everyone in Riften seemed to. When Aventus told him what had happened with the dagger, he actually smiled. He said, "Looks like someone out there was looking out for you. I doubt anyone will blame you for it. I certainly don't." He went on to call Grelod a whole lot of words that Aventus wouldn't have dared to repeat. But it was hard to disagree.

On the seventh day of travel, they'd finally made it to the base of the Throat of the World. That huge shape on the horizon was now a gigantic slope of rock and ice, extending upward into the sky right from beneath Aventus' feet. He thought the word 'vast' would be about right for it.

It was cold here, and the ground was starting to get frosty. So was the air. He had to put on a coat and gloves for this part. They were too big for him. He felt so out of place. But Sigaar didn't really think anything of it all. He'd traveled this route a hundred times, or so he said. Soon, they'd be in Falkreath, and they'd part ways. Aventus would pick up work as an apprentice, and Sigaar would be on his way back to Riften with new cargo.

Aventus felt a little bad about that. He liked Sigaar. It'd been so long since he'd been around an adult who let him feel relaxed. Not even Constance had been that way for him. But Sigaar said he'd be safe in Falkreath, and no one would treat him badly. And just to make sure, the next time he was in town, he'd check and see that Aventus was doing well. Aventus hadn't thought that anyone who wasn't a parent could be that nice to a kid.

On the seventh day, they passed by an interesting sort of landmark. They were getting to the mountain pass around the Throat of the World. The road ahead had big rocky walls on either side, where it'd been cut deep through the ground. The landmark was at the start of the pass. It was a pair of stone pillars, on either side of the road, about twenty feet high. They looked ancient. Their tops were sculpted in a way that reminded Aventus of bird heads, with the beaks pointing at each other. Sigaar had no idea what it was for, but said they were probably made by the Nords who lived back in the First Era, or earlier. Aventus thought they looked a little spooky.

As they passed through, something rustled in the brambles up ahead, off the road. Sigaar told Aventus to get down, because this could be trouble. It was hard to get down when the wagon was so full. He had to clamber over all the mead barrels and hide behind them. When he looked up, the stone bird beaks were right above him. A shiver went through him, and it wasn't from the cold.

There was a wet thud at the front of the wagon. Sigaar grunted loudly. The wooden planks of the wagon creaked. There was another thud. Aventus peered around the edge of the barrels, and saw his traveling companion slump over and fall off his seat. There were two big feathered arrows sticking out of his chest. Aventus knew he was already dead by the time he landed on the road.

Someone up ahead shouted, "Take it all! Move!" and there was a rush of footsteps. People running towards the wagon. Bandits. They'd killed Sigaar, and they were going to steal the cargo. The mead. They'd killed him for mead.

Aventus didn't even have time to be terrified. He only had time to ask himself one question. If he weren't dreaming right now, and this was real, what would he do?

But he didn't have time to give himself an answer.

Three men in old leather armor came running around the edge of the wagon. When they saw Aventus crouching there, they just stopped and stared. He must have surprised them. They were wrinkled, bearded, dirty-looking people. They didn't even have helmets on. They looked almost crazy.

Aventus stared back at them. His mouth suddenly went dry. He couldn't think of what to say. After a moment, he managed to croak out, "Listen, please."

The man in the center suddenly shouted and reached for his sword. But he didn't pull it out. He just screwed up his face really tight, then fell flat on his front. A dagger handle was sticking out the back of his neck.

The other two men drew their swords all the way and turned around, but the road was empty. One of them shouted, "Who's there?!"

A fourth man came running from the front of the wagon. He must've been trying to steal the horse. But his feet skidded out from under him and he landed on his back. Aventus didn't even see what brought him down.

A human-looking blur had suddenly appeared in front of him. It was moving so fast, Aventus couldn't even tell what it was. Just a lot of black and red. The bandit on the left clutched his throat and fell to his knees. Blood was coming out through his fingers. The blur grabbed the right-side bandit's sword arm and twisted the blade straight into his own belly. Then it tore the blade out through the bandit's side. Big worm-like tubes came pouring out with the blood.

Then the blur spun around and kicked the left-side bandit in the chin. His head snapped back with a loud crunch. He fell over with his head cocked at a weird angle. There was a big red gash in the front of his neck, like a smile that was too big and too low.

It all happened in a couple of seconds. Aventus was frozen in place. Still just staring. He couldn't think.

The blur finally stopped long enough for Aventus to see who it was. A man, with pale skin, dark around the eyes, wearing what looked like a dark red jester's costume. With the kind of hat with the bells on it and everything.

Aventus truly had no idea what was going on.

The man squinted at Aventus for a moment, studying him. Then he cracked a smile and said, "It is Cicero's true pleasure to meet you!"


	6. Razelan

Fredas, 7:46 PM, 8th of First Seed, 4E 202

Thalmor Embassy

Razelan had his own way of doing things. And who could blame him?

He didn't come here to schmooze around with the Thalmor like everyone else did. If he had his way, all these penny-pinchers and boot-lickers would be back at home thinking about what awful people they were, instead of standing in a room together and calling it a party. He just came here because the East Empire Trading Company wanted someone 'representing their interests' in the embassy, and they'd picked him. And he wasn't really complaining, because the servers here gave him free drinks. Razelan was a man of simple needs.

It was too bad that he had to do his drinking in the same parlor as these whackos. He knew them all by name now. There was Maven Black-Briar, who just about owned the whole city of Riften. And there was Erikur, who _thought_ he just about owned the whole city of Solitude. A couple of the Jarls liked to come here too, and they weren't all bad, but everyone was still only here to 'represent their interests'. And they all thought it was a good idea to try to do that while 'reasonably sober'. Dabblers, the whole lot of them.

Razelan, on the other hand, was so devoted to his cause, he always showed up here a day early. They couldn't turn him away, not on a frozen mountainside like the embassy was on, so he got to spend the whole day drinking while everyone else was still on the road. By the time they got here, he didn't even care.

Take today, for example. The party was in session. Razelan still couldn't believe they tried to call this a party. It was about a dozen people in a room just talking. Like it was some kind of intellectual discussion. Razelan was right in his usual spot in the parlor, of course, sipping away at a goblet of wine. He was pretty sure this was an Alto red. It was a whole lot more interesting than all the blathering going on in here.

Erikur was standing straight across from him. Talking to Elenwen. Two of his least favorite people in Tamriel, both so close by he could throw his goblet at him. Razelan figured he wasn't too drunk yet to be able to hit Elenwen on the head. Unfortunately, that'd waste the rest of his wine. No throwing today.

"You've really outdone yourself with today's reception, Elenwen," Erikur said, which was complete nonsense. This parlor looked the exact same as it always did. A little single room, made of Nordic masonry that looked like it'd been stolen piece for piece from Solitude. No musicians, no jesters, just the constant little murmuring noise of a dozen shady conversations happening at once.

"As First Emissary, it is my duty to have the needs of my guests consistently met," Elenwen said primly. She looked so hideous in that makeup. It made Razelan wonder if they had any mirrors in the embassy. She must have started out wanting to make her eyes and cheekbones stand out, and somehow ended up just smearing a couple big black smudges on her face. And there was so much shadow on her eyes that every time she blinked, she looked like she just had a couple of empty eye sockets in her head.

If she wanted her face to look like a skull, she could have afforded to have someone do the makeup for her. This was just embarrassing.

"And we all appreciate it. Some… More than others." Erikur talked like a shopkeeper. A sleazy shopkeeper. By Oblivion, all of these people were repulsive.

"Some are more accustomed to the comforts of wealth than others, yes," said Elenwen. Razelan blinked at her a couple times. Did anyone actually think this lady was respectable? Attractive, Divines forbid? Did anyone want to see what was underneath that uniform? Razelan was going to give himself nightmares.

See, this was why he spent so much time drinking. He would've been insane to expose himself to these kinds of people _without_ half a gallon of wine in him. That nice buzz going in his head was the only way to handle the dangers of his job. And working in the world of business was always dangerous. If it weren't the Thalmor embassy, it'd be someplace else.

If this were a real party, he would've been up on his feet, dancing to the music, maybe even singing along, having a good time. But this was the world of business, and these weren't people to have a good time around. They would've all gladly stabbed each other in the back if they thought it'd earn them an extra septim. And so, Razelan preferred to keep his back to the wall. Literally, actually. He kept accidentally hitting his head on it. It was getting really annoying.

On the other hand, free wine. It was almost like a fair trade.

Erikur was still talking. "There's plenty of wealth down in Solitude, but it's really only so much. You have the right idea with these parties. Get everyone in one place, and let the opportunities emerge. "

By now, Razelan was starting to wonder how much Erikur believed his own words. Surely, a man successful enough to become Thane wouldn't be that dull. That wasn't possible, was it? Erikur wasn't _that_ stupid, was he?

Stupid enough to dress like a Jarl and have a haircut like a helmet, sure. But he wasn't _that_ bad, right?

Razelan's goblet was empty. He signaled for more wine.

Elenwen asked, "Do you have such an opportunity to bring to my attention, Erikur?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. Something that would be… Mutually advantageous for the two of us. It's lucky that this party is being hosted today, because this wouldn't even be possible anymore a week from now."

A server came by and refilled Razelan's wine for him. He barely even noticed. He was staring at those two schemers on the far side of the room, eyes narrowed, brow creased. Everyone in this parlor was always up to so something, but he always had to keep an eye on Erikur.

It was sort of his one favor to the East Empire Company. Their whole thing in Skyrim all came out of Solitude. That was where they had their main warehouse. It was also where Erikur happened to live and work.

Razelan had a hard time taking the man seriously. But the East Empire Company thought he was a big deal, and Razelan worked for them, so… What was he even up to over there?

"It's very simple," Erikur was saying. "When Ulfric Stormcloak escaped Solitude, one of the guards opened the gate for him. That guard has since been arrested, of course. The trial took some time, lots of controversy, as you'd expect. But he's been convicted, and his execution is scheduled for next week. Middas, I think."

Well, this definitely didn't have to do with Razelan's employers. It was sad stuff, the whole thing with Roggvir, but it wasn't exactly a business concern. Besides how it'd let the war happen and all. But Razelan thought that was sad stuff too. Some people in this room thought the war was a good thing. An _opportunity_, like they liked to call it. He had a few choice words he'd like to say to them about that.

Elenwen gestured impatiently. "And the opportunity?"

"You command the Thalmor headquarters in Solitude. Have your Justiciars take him away. I know you have your own prison somewhere, just put him there if you like. I'm sure you can spin it in a way people will believe. Talos worship, and all. But you get him out of Solitude, and he won't get publicly executed like the Empire wants."

"You still haven't explained the opportunity."

"Very sharp, Elenwen," Erikur chuckled. "I happen to be in contact with a few choice individuals in Solitude's city guard. I'll be blunt. I'm looking to discredit one of them. He's been pushing for the convict's execution for ages. Wants to make an example. Really less for the Empire, more for his own good. He's also been missing some certain payments of great value. I want to show him that he's not as in charge of his livelihood as he seems to believe."

Razelan had heard enough. He gulped down the last of his wine and set the goblet down next to him. He didn't even feel the tingling anymore. Honestly, he didn't care about the city guards. They weren't… They just didn't matter to him. But he'd had enough of Erikur's conniving around in the parlor. This was just going to need all the nerve he could muster.

Slowly, shakily, he rose to his feet. The ground was tilting around a little underneath him. He stood strong.

Razelan had always considered himself a bit of a good orator. It was how he'd gotten so far in the East Empire Company. He commanded attention when he wanted to. Here in the embassy, he didn't usually try that hard to put it to use. Sure, he messed around with the guests and guards when he felt like it. They were easy to mess around with. But he never tried to really _do_ anything with his talent. He never seemed to care to. Now that time was over.

Erikur had spent this whole evening making a fool of himself. He was a disgrace to Solitude's court. He deserved the worst of verbal lashings that anyone could give him. As Razelan slowly approached, step by determined step, he ran through his head what he was going to say.

"What you ask of me is a favor," said Elenwen.

"A small one, yes. But the rewards—" Erikur cut himself off, and glanced right at Razelan. He'd noticed. Now it was time. "Can I, uh… Can I help you?"

Why, yes. Yes he could. Razelan raised a finger in warning. He'd been sitting here and stewing in his own annoyance for far too long. He'd been watching and waiting, and now more than ever, he knew it was time for him to remind Erikur of just who he was. Sure, he had a tongue of silver most days, but silver made a deadly edge against vile creatures. It was time he put that to use.

As Razelan stepped towards Erikur, the floor came up to meet him. He stumbled forward a few steps, then heaved the contents of his stomach all over Erikur's front.

When he opened his eyes, he was on his elbows. He looked up and saw a fancy-dressed blond-haired man standing there, frozen in shock.

"Wh—" Erikur's voice caught in his throat. Then he let out an awful shriek, and pulled a metal thing out of his robes. A dagger.

The guards grabbed him before he could do anything. He was shouting and cursing all over the place. They were dragging him away somewhere.

Razelan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and struggled back up onto his knees. "Unnhh, my… Tastes awful," he said.

That skull-faced hag Elenwen was looking down at him, lips all pursed and everything. He realized everyone else in the room was staring at him too. Erikur wasn't in the room anymore. It would've been dead silent in here, but he was still screaming his head off somewhere, muffled behind some door.

"First Emissary," Razelan smiled. "Could I trouble you to have someone get me some wine?"

Elenwen closed her eyes. Skull-faced. "Ugh. Take him outside," the skull said.

A pair of arms picked Razelan up from behind. "Please come with me, sir," said a woman's voice back there. One of the soldiers, probably. Razelan didn't mind. He'd had enough of this party anyway.

On the way out, he heard Elenwen saying, "He's lucky he didn't do that on me."

And then something strange happened. He heard Maven Black-Briar's voice quite clearly saying, full of mirth, almost laughing, "I will not leave this function satisfied if he is not paid for that. Preferably with copious amounts of gold."

Razelan must have been more drunk than he'd realized. That couldn't have been Maven Black-Briar. Completely impossible. She never laughed at anything.


	7. Kharjo

Middas, 5:49 PM, 27th of Last Seed, 4E 202

Weynon Stones

Skyrim was always a foreign land, but at times, it seemed like another world entirely.

This was the Pale. Its capital city, Dawnstar, was the only settlement on Skyrim's northern coast worth traveling to. There was good business to be had there—but to reach it, Kharjo and his companions had to travel through… This.

An evergreen forest, frozen and gray. An unchanging landscape, as far as the eye could see. Snow was everywhere. Blanketing the ground, dusting the trees, blowing through the air. The snowflakes got into his armor, into his boots, in his eyes. In the warmer parts of his body, the cold stung and ached. In other parts, he had gone numb long since.

The roads in this place were not safe to travel. There were bandits here, and worse. Kharjo's caravan traveled through the wilderness. By this route, there was no trail to follow. The only landmark, the only way they had to navigate, was the Throat of the World's hazy silhouette in the southern sky.

Every time they traveled this route, their path was a little different. There was always the chance of coming upon something they had not seen before—or being set upon by something they had avoided before.

Kharjo had heard that Skyrim had a way of carving a man down to his true self. He could not disagree. This was a wild, grueling way of life. The ceaseless pain of the cold, the fear of the open countryside, the unending strife and danger. It was like another world. Those who came here were always at some kind of risk.

When the caravan had stopped at Whiterun, they had been told that the dragons, the terrible flying beasts of ancient legend, had returned to Skyrim in force. It had not changed anything for their way of life. He and his fellow Khajiit would continue to travel and trade as always. From Whiterun, they had set off north without delay. Now they were well on their way to Dawnstar.

It was striking how little of a difference the dragons' return made. But it made sense, as well. Kharjo could not imagine being deluded enough to think the dragons threatened his safety. This was Skyrim. He had no safety to begin with.

This evening, it seemed, the dangers of this land would come upon them once again. Kharjo was leading the others through the ankle-deep snow, squinting against the icy wind, when he heard the unmistakable sounds of combat up ahead. Just one man's voice, shouting with every impact of a metal weapon. In clearer weather, Kharjo might have been able to see it already, but not today.

He turned around and said, "Wait here. I will see what this is."

Kharjo was a caravan guard. He was no merchant, and he was no craftsman. He had chosen for himself the way of steel. As he crept ahead through the snow, his hand went to the sword at his hip. The blade came forth without a sound. He hoped he would not have to use it.

There was a clearing ahead. From the fog emerged an array of tall, motionless shapes. Stone pillars. This was an old Nordic ruin. A shrine, perhaps, a site of worship. Or possibly a grave. Or both.

The pillars were arranged in a sizable ring. At opposite ends were two large stone structures. One looked like a statue. The other was harder to identify. An altar, he thought. The sounds of combat were very clear now, but Kharjo still saw nothing. He found a suitable bit of foliage to crouch behind, then watched and waited.

From behind the altar, the combatants emerged into view. One man, and two pale blue wisps whipping about in the air. Ice wraiths. Kharjo had only seen these a handful of times. Terrifying creatures. More like atronachs than beasts. Nothing was above their wrath.

The man was handling himself well. He kept moving, kept himself from being outflanked, and whenever a wraith lunged at him, he beat it back with a mace in one hand. His attire belonged to no group that Kharjo knew of, but it seemed like a mage's robes. Or something of the sort.

Kharjo felt the urge to step in and help. But he stayed where he was. This man could have been a necromancer, or a cultist, or a hundred other things. When weapons were drawn, all strangers were potential enemies. For now, he would continue to wait.

The man's performance was not disappointing. He was not just evading these creatures, he was goading them. Inviting them to overextend themselves. And sure enough, before long, one of the ice wraiths lunged just a bit too eagerly. The head of the man's mace was there to greet it.

Kharjo was no merchant, but he knew that ice wraith teeth were valuable goods. An alchemy reagent, he believed. Easy to extract, easy to store, and very useful. The one thing that made them ever worth fighting. Some warriors made it a point to attack ice wraiths on sight, with the specific intention to collect their teeth.

In this wraith's case, extracting its teeth would be a little more difficult, because the man's mace had just smashed them right down its icy little throat.

The wraith collapsed in on itself and fell to the ground. Now it was one on one.

The man backpedaled slowly into the center of the ring, goading the second ice wraith along, leading it ahead of its own lunges. He had clearly done this before. An experienced warrior. Perhaps not a friendly warrior, but an experienced one. Kharjo wondered what words they might exchange.

Then the man slipped on a rock and landed on his back.

Kharjo stood up.

The man's mace went flying. It landed far off to the side. All of a sudden, he was unarmed. The ice wraith instantly darted down at him. Kharjo didn't see the results clearly, but he heard the man's scream.

That settled it. He wasn't waiting any longer.

Kharjo took off at a furious sprint. Leaning deep forward, legs bounding, arms moving, straight at the man and his assailant. He reached the ring in six paces. His final, seventh step was on the altar. He used it as a boost, to make one great, final leap. For a split second, he was free in midair, sword high above his head. And then, with a bellowing roar, he brought his weapon down upon the wraith.

The crack of the impact traveled all the way up his arms. The ice wraith's brittle form disintegrated. Its inert remains landed on the snow in a bluish mound.

There was blood on the man's robes. It didn't look like much, but these were ice wraith bites. He was laying there, eyes shut, twitching painfully. He would need assistance.

Up close, the man looked quite odd. He was a Nord, somewhere around forty years old. That much made sense. But along with his robes, he wore steel plate gauntlets and boots. No helmet or hood or anything of the sort. In fact, his head was entirely bald, but for two great big brown tufts of hair on the sides of his face. A very strange way of looking indeed. It didn't make much sense.

Or it didn't, until Kharjo noticed the amulet around the man's neck. He was not perfectly versed in the symbols of the Divines, but there was only one that this could be.

He turned back to the direction he had come from, and called out, "It is safe! Come ahead!"

Ten minutes later, Kharjo, his companions—Ahkari, Zaynabi and Dro'marash—and the Nord man were all sitting around a campfire in the center of the ring. They had been walking all day. Walking, and dragging a sledge full of wares to sell. No one had objected to setting up camp here.

The very first thing the man had done when he had awoken was cast a healing spell upon himself. The second was to go find his mace. And the third was to sit down wearily at the fire. He looked rather dazed. Kharjo was following him around closely. He wasn't responding to anything the Khajiit said.

"So," said Ahkari, once the man had joined him. "What is your name?"

The man laid his head in his hands, breathing slow and deep. Kharjo sat down by him.

Eventually, he looked up and said, "Tolan. My name is Tolan. Thank you for your aid. And your hospitality. I may not have survived without it."

"You fought well," said Kharjo. "It was impressive to see. You are a Vigilant of Stendarr, are you not?"

The others of his caravan had started preparing their dinner. One of the things carried on their sledge was a whole deer's worth of venison. The cold did well enough to preserve it. Now they were setting it up to roast.

Or at least, Ahkari and Zaynabi were. Dro'marash was sitting there, looking straight ahead, a scowl on his face. He seemed not to enjoy their choice of campsite. Ahkari and Zaynabi were the merchants. Kharjo and Dro'marash were the guards. Kharjo could not blame his partner for disliking this place.

"I _was_ a Vigilant of Stendarr, yes," Tolan answered, his voice suddenly unsteady. "The Vigil is no more. Yesterday, I returned to our hall, from some work in the field. It's not far from here, the Hall of Vigilants. I returned there, and found it… Everyone was dead. Killed. By vampires."

Kharjo sighed. Another crisis in Skyrim, and he had come right upon it. As though the dragons had not been enough. Still, this man was obviously in grief. It was only right to aid him as before. "By the Nine," he breathed, though it was more of a courtesy than anything. He imagined Tolan appreciated the Aedra more than he did. "I am… So sorry."

Tolan shook his head slowly. "There's nothing to do now but move forward. Skyrim is in danger. Now is the time to act. The dead are in no hurry to be mourned."

"In danger of vampires?" That was Ahkari. "How is that possible? Vampires have never been more than a nuisance. A rather minor one. Not even your sworn enemy."

The Vigilants of Stendarr were renowned for their unconditional hostility towards the Daedra. If nothing else, Kharjo thought he understood their reasoning. The Daedra had caused so much death and destruction in the world. But it seemed a bit unfair to him, how they blamed an entire race for the deeds of a few. As a Khajiit, he was not new to that idea.

Tolan said, "The vampires, if you do not know, are the doing of Molag Bal. So yes, they are my sworn enemy. They've never been this threatening, yes. But they have a leader now, I think. Or a goal. Or both. I haven't had any of their kind around to ask."

Zaynabi suddenly asked, "How do you manage in this cold?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You are wearing no more than robes. You have nothing on your head at all. How have you not frozen to death by now?"

"Ah… Nords handle the cold well?" Tolan smiled a little. "And an enchantment of frost resistance doesn't hurt."

"Neither would a hood."

"I never wear anything of the sort. No hood, no helmet. Too many times, my life has depended on seeing or hearing something that those would have interfered with."

Kharjo smirked. "And here I had thought you left your head uncovered so that we could see your magnificent side whiskers."

Tolan gave him a sourly amused look. "Yes. I can see why you would think that."

As it happened, Kharjo sported nearly exactly the same style as Tolan. The main differences, of course, being that Kharjo's hair was gray instead of brown, and that the rest of his entire body was covered in fur because he was a Khajiit.

Something occurred to him. He should have asked this right at the start. "So your hall has been attacked," he said. "Where are you traveling to now?"

"The Rift, most likely. I may simply buy passage on a wagon when I reach Whiterun. To Riften, I mean. It's going to be a long journey."

Kharjo did not bother to hide his surprise. "Riften? What for?"

That city was another trade destination of Kharjo's caravan. He had grown quite familiar with it, or at least its outer gates. Every time he went there, he heard about the menace of the Thieves Guild, but over the past five years, the whole time he had traveled with this caravan, he had never been approached by any of the guild's members. A mysterious place. Not very fitting for a Vigilant of Stendarr.

"A couple of things," Tolan said. "I have some contacts in the area who may be able to help with the vampire problem. And there's a priest of Mara I intend to meet at the temple there. He's actually just a few days' travel ahead of me."

"There is a temple of Mara in Riften?"

"Ah, yes. Not allowed into the cities. I actually forgot, I apologize for that. Yes, there is. Now, where are you all headed?"

"Dawnstar, of course," said Ahkari. "Where else would we be traveling in this frozen waste?"

Zaynabi snorted with amusement. Kharjo had to agree, it was a bit of a pointless question. But Dro'marash kept looking straight ahead, ignoring the whole thing.

"Fair enough," Tolan nodded. "That's where I just came from, actually. I met the priest in question there."

Zaynabi snorted again. "What, was he trying to spread his word of love to the people of Dawnstar?"

"Actually, we were working together to banish a Daedric artifact. Of Vaermina's, in fact. I'd been going back to my hall to report our success."

Vaermina. A mysterious Daedric Prince, as shadowy and threatening as Mephala and Herma-Mora. A suitable enemy for any but her own cultists. Certainly a worthwhile target of the Vigilants of Stendarr.

"Good work," Ahkari said flatly.

"This one has a question for you," said Dro'marash.

Tolan looked her way. "Hm?"

Dro'marash had spent this entire conversation in total silence. But now he finally spoke. And the moment he opened his mouth, Kharjo realized there would be trouble. "Why do the Vigilants fight all Daedra? Why is that your oath? Does that not include the benevolent princes, like Azura? And Meridia?"

Tolan said nothing.

Kharjo sat up slowly. His hairs were starting to stand on end. Zaynabi was making an affront. Indicating sympathy to the Daedra, in front of a Vigilant of Stendarr? This could turn disastrous very quickly.

Dro'marash must have been waiting for an answer, how he was sitting there in silence. But after a moment, he continued anyway. "You cannot judge them all for the actions of a few. Do you realize how hateful that is of you? How blind? As though the Aedra and Daedra are no more than good and evil."

And this evening had been going so well.

Tolan let out a long, slow sigh. "The Vigilants of Stendarr have always picked their battles carefully. Some Daedra are more of a threat than others. Very few of the Daedric Princes are considered evil by everyone. But can you fault us for mistrusting them all?"

"Yes, I can," Dro'marash snapped. "You would rather root yourselves in your narrow-mindedness than acknowledge anything good about the Daedra. So many people follow the Daedric Princes. The ones who actually _do_ things in this world, unlike your Divines. And you are calling them all evil."

"Dro'marash, please," said Kharjo, raising a hand in his direction. "The man is in grief. This is no time to test him."

Tolan looked between the two of them silently. Kharjo could see the worry on his face. He could also see—and the others could not, because they were across the fire from him—Tolan slowly unrolling a piece of parchment in one hand behind his back.

He started to say, "If you'd like me to be on my way now…"

"No." Dro'marash shook his head. "An enemy of all Daedra is an enemy of all mortals the Daedra look after. You are no better than the agents of the Thalmor, intruding on people's ways, forcing your intolerance upon them. Why should you be on your way?"

"Well, I'm… I'm not even going to be fighting Daedra anymore, I don't think," Tolan said. He sounded as concerned as Kharjo felt. "Just vampires. You don't like vampires, do you?"

"Enough. I have heard enough." Dro'marash went for the hilt of his sword.

But before Kharjo could react, Tolan slung a bright green ball of magicka right at his companion. There was a swooping sound of a spell in the air, and then Dro'marash collapsed onto his back, transfixed.

"I am sorry," Tolan said as he stood up. He picked his mace up on the way, but by the head. He was not about to use it. "I must take my leave now. Your friend will be better in a moment."

Kharjo did not move. That must have been a paralysis spell. He had never seen one in person. It was taking him a moment to process the thought that one of his traveling partners had just been paralyzed.

Neither of the merchants moved either. They were staring wide-eyed up at Tolan.

"Blessings of Stendarr upon all of you," the man said. And then he was off into the woods, leaving the four travelers behind.

Kharjo watched him leave. When he turned back, Dro'marash was slowly struggling to get upright again.

"He paralyzed me!" Dro'marash protested from his position on the ground.

"You were going to attack him," said Kharjo.

"You fool," Ahkari spat. "We could have traded with that man. What has gotten into you?"

When Dro'marash sat up again, he had a look on his face that Kharjo had never seen on him before. It could only be described as a look of anguish. "I am sorry," he said quietly. "The Vigil of Stendarr is no ally of mine."

"The Vigil of Stendarr is _gone_," Kharjo said. "The man you just confronted was a Vigilant no longer. He was simply Tolan."

"An organization dedicated to fighting the ones you worship," said Dro'marash, as though Kharjo had not spoken.

Kharjo was no Daedra worshipper. For that matter, he considered himself to be free of shackles of religion entirely. Dro'marash was talking about himself.

And it was understandable of him. To an outsider, this might have seemed like a totally random outburst of anger. But the Khajiit of Skyrim already had so much to cope with. Not only all the dangers that the Nords faced, but also the Nords themselves. It was already more than enough that the Khajiit were judged simply for being Khajiit. Now a Nord, a man who would fight to the death for his belief in the Divines, was judging a Khajiit for his faith. Kharjo could see himself reacting just as Dro'marash had.

"Next time, keep your feelings in check," said Ahkari. "Or you will need to find another caravan to escort. I will not have my guards driving away potential business."

Dro'marash growled under his breath.

Kharjo had to say something. He did not even know what, but he had to speak. He opened his mouth and began a sentence, not knowing how it would end. "Please think, my friend, just please think. This Nord meant you no harm. Even if he had known of your beliefs, he would not have attacked you, and… And surely he has suffered enough, has he not? His friends are all dead. He is traveling alone now."

"That does not make him a better man," Dro'marash said.

"No, but let us at least allow him to continue his journey in peace. Whatever his beliefs, he must desire to do the right thing. Even after… After losing everything, he is continuing in his duties."

Dro'marash looked at him in silence.

"Let us see how the venison is doing!" Zaynabi said brightly, and got up to examine the meat over the fire.

Dro'marash continued to look at Kharjo. Zaynabi peered at the roasting meat for a moment, then realized no one was paying attention and slunk back to her seat.

"His home has been destroyed," Kharjo said. "He has lost everything. What have I lost in Skyrim? An old amulet?"

"Am I meant to take satisfaction in his pain?" Dro'marash had a look that suggested he just might.

"No, nothing like that. Simply… Let it be. We have a night's rest ahead of us. Relax."

Dro'marash settled down in place. He did not look happy, but he was quiet. Kharjo supposed that was good enough.

Another day, another crisis to work their way through. Skyrim was like another world. A world of danger, and loss, and sorrow. But all four of them had agreed to come here. It was also a world of opportunity.

Sometimes the cost felt acceptable. Other times, Kharjo wished with all his heart to return home. And once in a long while, he wondered if maybe, someday in years to come, enough intrepid souls would seek out the opportunities of Skyrim that it would start to become a better place.

**I'd like to thank all of you for the feedback you've given me so far. This note wasn't in the original upload of this chapter, but I think it's worth observing that just like with my past stories, it's your reviews that keep me going. They're something to really look forward to.**


	8. Camilla

Loredas, 6:46 PM, 30th of Last Seed, 4E 201

Riverwood

Another day in Riverwood. Just… Another day in Riverwood. Camilla didn't know how else to describe it. The world was going to pieces out there, and she was sitting through another day in Riverwood.

It'd been over ten years now, that she and her brother had been running the Riverwood Trader. Well, he ran it. Camilla mainly just helped. And that meant that every day, she sat in here, on the ground floor of their little house-and-shop, looking at these four walls, and this table, and this counter, and these shelves. Their neighbors came in wanting to buy their usual things, and Lucan did business with them, and they left again. Every day.

She could barely remember doing anything else with herself. Life before the Riverwood Trader. Back in Cyrodiil, in the Imperial City. Before the Great War. Before all of it. She never would've guessed she'd end up in some quiet little corner of Skyrim, helping her brother sell dry goods.

But now she was here, spending another day in Riverwood. The only thing that was different from before was the claw.

This had all started about three weeks ago. Lucan had this strange ornamental dragon claw, made of solid gold. He liked to keep it on his counter, like some kind of trophy. Camilla had no idea where he'd gotten it from. But three weeks ago, some thieves broke in and stole it. They left everything else in the shop untouched. But the claw was gone.

It devastated Lucan, of course. He seemed to think that claw was just the most precious thing he'd found in the whole province. He might've even been right. Camilla hadn't really cared about it, but just for her brother's sake, she wanted to go find it. Take it back from those thieves, bring it back to the shop.

But Lucan wouldn't hear any of it. He sold dry goods, he said. That was where his purpose in life started and stopped. Selling dry goods. Someday, after he died, they'd write on his tombstone, "Here lies a man who sold dry goods." He didn't even want to consider options for getting his claw back. His loss, really.

And then that young Imperial man showed up. So far, he'd come into town twice. Once, almost two weeks ago, bearing news that dragons had returned to Skyrim. And once again, just a couple days ago, bearing none other than the golden claw!

Lucan had been thrilled. But then the man started explaining how he'd found it, and what it was for. Lucan had been… Less than thrilled, about that part. Still, it was making Camilla think.

She hadn't said anything yet. She knew Lucan was waiting for her to say something. To propose some kind of way to make use of this opportunity. To have a more interesting life, maybe. And he was just itching to remind her that no, Camilla, they sold dry goods. That was it. None of this adventuring business.

And so for the past whole couple days, they'd just been sitting here in the Riverwood Trade. Watching each other. Not saying a word. But by this point, Camilla couldn't keep at it any longer. These days in Riverwood had been going on for quite long enough.

So she said, "I've been thinking."

Lucan was in the middle of polishing off a wine bottle with a rag. He froze in place when he heard Camilla's voice, then slowly set the bottle down and looked up at her.

_Here we go_, she thought.

"About what, sister?"

Camilla took a deep breath. "That man who got you the claw back. He had some really good ideas, didn't he? Why don't we use them?"

"I'm glad he found the claw, but he had some _crazy_ ideas. We can't use them."

"I didn't think they were that crazy. He seemed to really know what he was talking about, didn't he? All we have to do is follow his advice."

"Camilla, we sell dry goods." Well, that didn't take long. "We have all the customers we need. We have a steady, _safe_ source of income. That man was telling us to throw that all away chasing after rotten old relics."

Normally, right about now, Camilla would have backed down. And she couldn't deny that she wanted to. Her brother always had a way of nipping her ideas in the bud. He had his little system working, he didn't need her input. And normally, she would have just dropped the topic right now, and left everything the way it was.

But not anymore. Not today. Today wasn't going to be just another day in Riverwood.

"You're talking about the rotten old relics in Bleak Falls Barrow, Lucan? The ones that that thief stole your golden claw to get to? It makes such perfect sense. Don't you see? This is why they didn't steal anything else."

Lucan stared at her silently.

"Because the treasures in Bleak Falls Barrow are worth more gold than we've ever even seen. This whole time, we've had that old Nordic ruin just looming over our home, and this whole time, the key to get inside has been right there on the counter!"

"So you want us to become treasure hunters?" Lucan folded his arms. "Travel up there and risk our lives for some extra coin? Even the path from Riverwood to Bleak Falls is dangerous, let _alone_ whatever's lurking inside that place."

"It can't be that dangerous, can it? That man survived just fine. … And it sounded like he killed everything that could threaten us."

They didn't just have to take the man's word for it, either. When he'd come back with the golden claw, he'd somehow also gotten his hands on a big, fearsome, ancient-looking battleaxe. He'd walked in with it slung on his back like any old thing. A trophy, he'd said, from fighting his way through the walking dead.

The thought sent a chill down Camilla's spine. The ancient Nord dead, rising up to fight the living. But it was sort of balanced out by that man coming in and announcing that he'd carved them all to little pieces.

"Camilla, what is this?" Lucan was looking almost worried now. That was new. "I don't know what's gotten into you. We're living a good life here. We have everything we need. We have customers, we have income. We have a roof over our heads, and food on our table. Isn't that enough?"

And he was right. Camilla hadn't gone hungry a single day since they'd arrived in Riverwood. She was safe here. There was a war going on, and she was safe here. The world was going to pieces, but they were so far away from the fighting. So far away from… Everything.

She could always count on another day in Riverwood.

She said, "No."

Lucan frowned. "What? What's wrong with that?"

"We only get one life, Lucan. Don't you understand that? Don't you understand what that means?" Forget it. Forget backing down. Forget holding it in. Camilla was done with that. "One life in this world. And what am I spending it on? I want to see Skyrim, I want—I want to find a husband and settle down and have a family of my own, and what am I doing? I'm seeing the same little village every day, and the two men who want me are fighting over me like some kind of prize, and _this_ is what my life is going to be? I don't want to look back on my life and see my whole damned existence spent on your damned dry goods!"

Somewhere during that whole thing, she'd stood up. And Lucan had turned away. Camilla couldn't see his face, but he had his head down. She bet he had his hands clenched into fists beneath the counter.

There was an awful pressure building up behind Camilla's eyes. Was she going to cry? Now was as good a time as any.

"Camilla," Lucan said quietly. "Please don't do this. Please."

She managed to reply, "Do what?"

Lucan shook his head. He didn't say anything.

"Talk to me, brother. What is it?"

Slowly, he turned back around and faced her. The man was trying so hard to look calm. It wasn't working well for him. "Don't… Camilla. Listen to me. You remember what you lost in the Imperial City? I lost it all too. There was _nothing_ left. There was… _Nothing_. Our family… Dead. Our home… Everything… It's all lost, and we're never going to get it back, _ever_. And it's just… We have to..."

A moment passed.

"Don't you understand, Camilla? All I want is for us to be safe. Please… Don't make us lose even more."

Why hadn't he explained this before now? Any time in the past ten years? It hit Camilla like a hammer in the chest. All the stubbornness, all the childishness. All of it. Everything she'd silently hated about her brother all these years. He was obsessed with sitting here and selling dry goods, and… Camilla was starting to feel the worst pang of guilt she'd ever felt.

Camilla didn't say anything. And for once, she didn't have something Lucan didn't want to hear on the tip of her tongue. She actually had no idea what to say. Lucan had never breathed a word about how he felt. She wasn't ready for this.

But then, her brother clearly wasn't ready either.

Carefully, Camilla stepped past the table and walked up behind the counter. Lucan wasn't looking at her. He was looking down someplace. Camilla reached out with one hand—her hand was shaking a little, when did that happen?—and laid it on his shoulder, as gently as she could.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm… I'm sorry. We've spent so long like this. Can we just… Put it behind us? All of it?"

Lucan took another breath, then paused, and then nodded. "All right. But do you understand me, Camilla? I'm not trying to be cruel to you."

"Yes, I do." Camilla took her hand off him. This was already all such a… Such a big moment. It didn't need that extra gesture. She didn't even know why she'd done that. "Do you understand me?"

Her brother didn't answer her. He swallowed, and looked down at his feet. But he didn't open his mouth.

"Lucan?"

"Yes." Now he looked up right at her. Face to face. She'd never seen him like this before. It didn't feel real. "Yes. I understand."

Camilla backed away from him a couple paces, nodding slowly. "All right. Now… What are we going to do?"

"I… I don't know, Camilla. I need time." Lucan was looking down again. And shaking his head, now, like before. "This is all so crazy. What do you… What do you want?"

"To be honest? Being completely honest to you?"

Lucan looked up at her.

She went on. "I just want you to listen to what I'm saying to you. That's all, to start. None of this, 'No, Camilla, stop having ideas'. You're so smart. You keep telling me my ideas aren't any good, but you know what I'm trying to do with them, so…"

Lucan was nodding a little now. Just a little. Camilla didn't know what to think of it. Was this a victory, or something? "All right," he said, in a low, quiet voice. Not his shopkeeping voice, that was for sure. "You want us to try and sell what we find in Bleak Falls? All right. I need time to think about how to do this."

"Promise me you're not just putting it off."

"I promise. Now… Please. Let's just… Try and have a normal evening, all right?"

"Actually, why don't we go over to the inn? Delphine's such a sweet lady, I'm sure she'd be happy to see us. And we should celebrate!" Camilla put on a smile. "We should definitely celebrate! A new chapter for the story of the Riverwood Trader."

Lucan squinted and scratched at the back of his head. "If we're planning on cleaning out Bleak Falls, of all things… We probably shouldn't let anyone know. If anyone gets the same idea, it'll turn sour, so we shouldn't, uh…"

Camilla looked at him. She just looked.

"Oh, by the Eight, fine, let's go to the inn." Lucan smiled back, in resignation. "If we're going to just be crazy from now on."

She wasn't sure if her brother was serious or just making a joke. She wasn't going to stay and find out.

When she walked out the front door, out into the street, Camilla looked up. Not up at the sky. Up at the mountains standing high above the village. From here, she could actually see the black triangle spires of Bleak Falls Barrow. Way high above, set almost at the very peaks, just these little markers of stone standing up against the sky.

She'd seen those every day she lived here. Every single time she stepped out of the shop. In the past, it had been really a bit morbid. This constant, gloomy reminder of what kind of land Skyrim really was. But not now.

Not anymore.

It was another fine day in Riverwood.

**Finally, I'm getting to write Lucan Valerius! I've been waiting to do this for a long, long while. Back when I was making the first rough drafts for The Currents of Time, I had actually planned for Lucan to be one of the POV characters. He was going to serve as the Dragonborn's personal financial advisor, and oversee the logistics of all the operations the Dragonborn put into motion. But in the end, he didn't make it in, and his role was split between Noster Eagle-Eye and Malborn.**

**Just a bit of trivia for you. I'm very happy to get to show a hint of what happens with him in this continuity.**


	9. Erik

Sundas, 7:36 PM, 31st of Last Seed, 4E 201

Rorikstead

Dragons.

The ancient monsters of myth, returned once again to the world. Led by the prophesied bringer of the end times, flying through the sky, destroying everything in their path.

It was so exciting!

Erik had spent his whole life working on the farm. It had never really felt like his true calling. It was an honest living, and his father did appreciate it. But his heart yearned for more. There was a whole world waiting out there for him to explore. There were heroic deeds waiting to be done. He'd just been waiting for the right time.

According to his father, that time was never. Especially not now, with the dragons about. But didn't that make now the best time of all? It was like a sign! A message to all the would-be heroes of Skyrim, that now was the time to take up arms and bravely defend their land. There was no way Erik could refuse this call.

But without his father's support, he couldn't afford a suit of armor. He did take staying alive seriously, even if his father didn't think so. He wasn't going to run out there in just his clothes. It was such a sad, simple reason to stay where he was, but it was true. He needed armor. So the first step in his journey was to persuade his father.

Erik had been trying to do just that, five minutes ago. Now he was walking down the road and staring sullenly at his feet. That discussion could have gone better. First step indeed.

If he was going to be an adventurer, he really needed to get better at dealing with people shouting at him.

This road led due south, in the general direction of Falkreath. Just a few miles down, there was another road branching off to the west, towards the Reach. Erik didn't think he'd end up getting as far as that. He just needed the fresh air after that talk.

No one ever really traveled on this road. Rorikstead simply wasn't a destination of travel. Whenever anyone did pass through, Erik always stopped what he was doing and waited to see if they'd stop at the inn. If they did, he'd go in after them and try to get them to… Well, to tell him about their lives, really. To tell him their stories of places far away from here. Unfortunately, his father was the innkeeper, so that usually didn't last long. But he tried.

Still, stories or no, this road was seldom traveled. Erik had roamed these roads many times, and it was always in total solitude. Every time he went out like this, he was tempted to just keep walking and see where the tides of fate would carry him. But he always turned back. Facing the vastness of Skyrim with nothing but the clothes on his back, he was fairly certain the tides of fate would carry him straight into an early grave.

So just like always, once he'd walked a little while, Erik stopped and took a look around. He'd gotten this far plenty of times before. It was getting dark out, but he could tell the western path would be nowhere in sight. In fact, the only thing out here in these plains was a glimmering orange light, way off to the left.

An orange light. A fire, probably. There was a split second where Erik hadn't yet realized what that meant. Then he took off at a run, straight at it. Home could wait. This was a traveler. He had questions to ask.

The campfire was a couple hundred yards off the left side of the road. A short, stout man in dark armor was standing by it, warming his hands. Nearby, a horse was tethered to something on the ground. This was a lone traveler. A warrior, just like Erik wanted to be.

It was amazing. The signs never ended. First the dragons coming to Skyrim, and now this armored wanderer standing at the campfire, waiting for him. It was as though for once, the world wanted the same thing Erik wanted.

The man was actually standing a good way back from the fire. It looked like he had something roasting over it. But it was dark out, and Erik couldn't tell what exactly it was. For that matter, the man wasn't much more than a black shape himself. He could have been anything. It was too dark to tell.

It looked like the man had noticed Erik approaching. He wasn't just staring at the fire anymore, anyway. When Erik got as close to the fire as the man was, he raised a hand and called out, "Hail, traveler!"

Then the man started to move, and Erik realized. The man hadn't been standing there all this time in front of the fire. He'd been _sitting_.

When he stood up, he towered over Erik. Over everything. Erik must have been at eye level with his breastplate. He was wearing a whole suit of plate armor. Black-colored plate armor.

Erik took a step backward, just automatically. His mouth had gone dry.

Then the man spoke. "What are you doing out here?"

This armor was beautifully made. Practically all of it was embossed with fancy silver designs. It looked like it'd been made for a prince. A prince the size of a house. But it covered every inch of the man's body. There was nothing else on him to look at.

It took a moment for Erik to realize what the man was asking him. He was surprisingly soft-spoken. He sounded like a regular person. Erik suddenly wanted to ask him what _he_ was doing out here. There must have been such a grand story behind armor like that. That was what he wanted to ask.

But what came out of his mouth was, "Are you a giant?"

The man sighed visibly. "Do I _look_ like—have you ever seen a giant before? They're twice as tall as I am. Now, what are you doing out here?"

That wasn't a bad question. What _was_ Erik doing out here? He'd gone out on the road because he'd just had an argument and wanted to get out of doors, but this stranger obviously didn't want to hear about that.

"I… Saw your fire," Erik said lamely. "No, I, uh…"

The man folded his arms and waited silently.

Erik tried again. "I'm from Rorikstead. We're only a few miles away from it right now. I always ask travelers what their story is when they stop at the inn, so…"

"So you decided you would go ask me too?"

Erik didn't say anything.

"That's very foolish of you. I'm a lone man, camping just outside your village, and you're approaching me by yourself, completely unarmed, past sundown. I could have been a bandit, or worse. You could be dead right now."

Now Erik didn't even know what to say. This man obviously had a lot of experience under his belt. But Erik didn't, and this was probably his first time talking to a real adventurer. And he'd started this talk by completely messing up. He just couldn't talk to anyone today.

How was he going to go out there and see the world if he couldn't even do things like this properly? He'd been so excited a minute ago. It was like that energy inside him had just fallen over dead. He couldn't believe this.

"No, don't…" The man rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. He must have noticed Erik's reaction. "I'm sorry. Look, I'm not going to hurt you. But you really shouldn't be out here. It's not safe."

"I'm… I don't know. _I'm_ sorry." Apologizing wasn't enough. This was unbelievable. He really could not believe this. His one chance at reaching out to a hero of Skyrim, and he was doing it all wrong. How was a man supposed to become more experienced if he lacked enough experience to start getting any?

The man asked, "Does anyone even know you're out here?"

"Well, my, uh…" Erik looked back in his home's direction. "My father knows I left to just go take a walk. But that's all."

Then he looked back at the man. He hadn't moved from where he stood. He was just impassively watching. Or he looked impassive. He was watching through a T-shaped slit in his visor. Erik couldn't see his face.

The man was right, honestly. It'd been a mistake to go try to talk to him. Erik didn't need this fellow standing over him to understand that he was in over his head. So… That was that, then.

"Sorry for bothering you," he said, then turned back towards the road.

That business with his father had been bad enough. He couldn't even scrape up enough money for a suit of armor. Now a genuine, experienced hero was telling him he didn't belong here. It was like the Divines had reached down to touch him, and then used the opportunity to smack him in the face.

Erik supposed it was time he got used to the idea of a life spent on the farm.

But he only got a couple paces before he heard the man say, "Wait."

Wait.

Erik turned around.

The man was still standing there. "Why are you asking everyone to tell you about themselves?"

"Because I want to be like you!"

Erik clapped a hand over his mouth. He hadn't meant to say that. It'd just come out. Not even on purpose. He was shaking his head. He'd made enough mistakes as it was.

He could tell the man was studying him. He couldn't see the man's face through that visor, but he could tell.

The man beckoned towards him, then sat back down where he'd been before. "C'mere."

Erik obeyed.

"Sit down."

The man was sitting on a broad, low, flat rock, jutting up from the ground like some kind of natural bench. Erik slowly lowered himself onto it, then instantly regretted his decision. This rock was as cold as ice. He didn't bother to comment on it. Being able to feel his rear end was overrated anyway.

So now he was sitting on a rock next to a huge guy in black plate armor. He couldn't even get himself to feel intimidated. To be fair, though, he had no idea what else he was feeling at that moment.

"I'm curious," the man said. "What do you think it means to be me?"

"I don't know. Something." Erik laid his forehead on the heels of his hands.

"Just say whatever is in your head right now. I don't care if it's relevant or not."

If that was what this man wanted, Erik could do it. Nothing in his head was relevant to anything right now. At the moment, he was thinking about his evening. Which didn't answer the man's question, but at least it was in his head. And if this man didn't care if he answered on topic, that was all quite convenient.

"I just spent all evening trying to convince my father. I want a suit of armor, so I won't… You know, so I won't get killed when I go out there, but he just wants me to stay on the farm. He doesn't want me going out and seeing the world. He… He talks about how that's my mother's side of the family talking. It's like he thinks I won't last ten seconds with a sword in my hand."

"What's special about your mother's side of the family?"

"I've got no idea. She died just after I was born."

The man turned his head and looked at Erik silently.

"My father fought in the Great War, though," Erik added. "It could be his side too."

"Well, that all makes sense enough, I think. You think I'm some sort of adventuring warrior? … That's an astute observation of yours." The man actually chuckled. "I try to stick to the wilderness. I haven't been to a hold capital in years, and, uh… If I'd known there was a road so close by, I wouldn't have made camp here. When you're my size, you can't really blend in with people."

"You could probably be a living legend if anyone knew about you. I bet you're unstoppable in a fight." That was just based on the fact that this man was seven or eight feet tall. He looked like he could break a door down by punching it. Just one punch.

"That's why I avoid everyone," the man said. "I get what I need from the Khajiit caravans. I don't need to go into the cities. But I'll admit, I'm enjoying getting to talk to someone."

"Wait. You avoid everyone because you don't want to be a living legend?"

"Yes."

Now it was Erik's turn to turn and stare silently.

"That's not how I want to live. I want to fight the evils lurking in the dark, where no one else will tread. I want to earn my place in Sovngarde someday. There's nothing in that about living for glory."

Erik nodded slowly. This he could understand.

"Still want to be like me?"

He shrugged. "I don't see why not. No one knows who I am _now_. It'd be a step up all the same."

At that, the man laughed out loud. He really had a very charming laugh. "All right. That's fair. Uh… I understand your position. If that's any comfort. And I'm glad you came to talk to me. I wouldn't advise you ever do anything like this again, but… You got very lucky tonight."

Lucky was an understatement. Erik had a growing feeling that he was speaking to one of the greatest heroes alive. And that he had just discovered one of Skyrim's deepest secrets. A living secret. This man was completely unsung, but by deliberate choice. Erik would have wagered that not even a dozen people in Skyrim knew the man existed.

This was so much greater than the return of the dragons. As the seconds went by, Erik was slowly realizing what kind of blessing he had just stumbled upon. If he didn't make good use of this encounter, he would never forgive himself.

Which meant this all boiled down to one question. "So… What _would_ you advise me to do?"

"How are you with a sword?"

Erik suddenly felt a rush of embarrassment. He shook his head slowly. "My father won't, uh… He won't let me…"

"Start there," the man said flatly. "Not with armor. If you're not trained in fighting, all the armor in the world won't help you. You could probably get a hold guard to show you the basics. Once you've got the essentials, then you can start worrying about getting some real gear. And try going into Whiterun. The Companions are based there, and they always want willing and able warriors. Back when I was new, having that kind of support and teamwork wasn't just the difference between life and death, it was the difference between seeking out goals and not knowing what to do with myself."

If only Erik had some parchment handy, he could have written this all down. It hardly mattered, though. All he could think of was his father. If he repeated all this advice back at home, he knew exactly what kind of answer he'd get.

"You know my father won't want me training with the guards," he said.

"Wait here." The man stood up and give the spit over the fire a turn. Then he started towards his horse. Now that Erik was looking at it up close, he could identify it as being absolutely massive. Fitting, considering its rider. Probably some kind of mythical stallion or something. The man was walking up to it and fiddling with the saddlebags.

If he was fetching a coin purse, Erik was going to have a very fun time in the coming days.

But when the man came back, whatever he was holding was small enough to fit in a closed fist. He sat back down at Erik's side, fist raised. "Here. Hold out your hand."

Erik offered an upturned palm. The man dropped a bundle of fine steel chain into it.

This was a necklace. With a pendant of some kind on it. Erik put a finger through the chain and let it all hang free. The chain poured out of his hand in a little cascade, and then the pendant fell forth.

He would've recognized it anywhere. This was an icon of Talos. It looked like a miniature double axe head. And it was made of the same black metal as this man's armor. Decorated with the same ornate silver markings. It matched the design perfectly.

This pendant was illegal to have in one's possession. Talos worship had been forbidden for as long as Erik could remember. But now here it was, swaying back and forth on the end of the chain in his hand. He looked up wordlessly at the man it belonged to.

"It's yours now," the man said. "Keep it. When you come back home, you may as well tell your father you found someone out here. Someone who believes in you. That little amulet can be your proof."

Erik smiled. "Thank you. Thank you so much. He'll have a hard time saying no to this."

Just to make sure he remembered it, he put the necklace on right then and there. The chain was heavy and cold on his neck, but once he tucked the metal icon beneath his shirt, it felt like it fit. It felt right.

The man asked, "What's your name?"

"Erik. What's yours?"

"It's a pleasure to have met you, Erik." The man nodded to him respectfully. "I wouldn't expect anyone to know the name I was born with. But if you need a title to remember me by, I'm the Ebony Warrior."

Erik returned the nod, still smiling. "You've changed a man's life today. I don't think I could have ever asked for something this great."

"You'd better get home," the Ebony Warrior said. "It's getting dark out here."

"Yes, it is. All right, then…" Erik slowly stood up. His muscles had gotten stiff from sitting here like this. And sure enough, he was a bit numb where he'd been sitting on the rock. But that was fine.

He turned back around. "Do you think I'll ever see you again?"

The Ebony Warrior looked up at Erik for a long few seconds. They just looked at one another. Then he said, "I believe we will. One way or another. We may cross paths in Skyrim once again. It's entirely possible, for adventurers like us. But if not… Well, I'll see you in Sovngarde."

Those were the last words they exchanged. Erik didn't offer a farewell. He simply went on his way to the road home.

The sun had disappeared behind the western mountains. Everything around him was lit dimly by the moon. He didn't mind. He'd make it back to Rorikstead soon enough.

It wasn't just the amulet. It wasn't even the advice. Erik walked up this road knowing he'd just been given something greater. Something that outshone everything he had ever asked for.

He finally knew what he wanted to become. Nothing had ever made him feel so free.


	10. Festus

Fredas, 4:49 PM, 29th of Last Seed, 4E 201

Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary

Some assassins in the Dark Brotherhood saw fit to play right into everyone's idea of who they were. Skulking in the shadows, waving daggers around. Festus Krex didn't understand how they could be so crude. There was so much more joy to be had in destroying a person's body with a well-placed burst of magic.

But it was more than that, really. No one feared the Dark Brotherhood anymore. Quite a many people barely even knew of them. And this was for a very simple reason: they had been adrift. They had been for years now. Picking up little contracts wherever they heard about them, earning a handful of septims for kills that should have brought them a fortune. The Dark Brotherhood was meant to be more than this.

As far as Festus was concerned, the return of the Night Mother was a welcome change of pace.

And he was no fool. He had not lived to this venerable old age by being clueless to the goings-on around him. When that babbling lunatic Cicero had come to their front door with the Night Mother's coffin in tow, things around here had changed. Already, Festus could see the assassins of the Dark Brotherhood dividing into two sides. One side wanted things to stay the way they were, with Astrid as the Brotherhood's ultimate leader. Festus himself was on the opposing side.

It was partly a practical issue. The Dark Brotherhood's claim to fame was that anyone could arrange a contract with them simply by performing the Black Sacrament. The Night Mother would detect the ritual, wherever it was performed, and relay it to them through whichever assassin she chose as her Listener. A clever system, courtesy of the grace of Sithis. But not very much use if the Night Mother wasn't even in their sanctuary. There was no way to know for sure, but Festus suspected they were hearing of only one in every ten contracts people attempted to set up with them. Small wonder they were left scrounging all the time.

But it was also a matter of principle. All the contracts in the world were no use if the Brotherhood carried on as it was. Even before the Night Mother had arrived, Astrid had declared her word as law, beyond the Five Tenets themselves. The Five Tenets. Festus had known them by heart for many years.

Never dishonor the Night Mother. Never betray the Dark Brotherhood or its secrets. Never disobey or refuse to carry out an order from a Dark Brotherhood superior. Never steal the possessions of a Dark Brother or Dark Sister. Never kill a Dark Brother or Dark Sister. To do any of these things was to invoke the wrath of Sithis.

Astrid thought herself more powerful than the Night Mother. Festus still followed Astrid's word for the time being, of course, but everyone in the Brotherhood knew that this wouldn't last forever.

The Night Mother's coffin had been standing wide open in their sanctuary for over three weeks now. It was the strangest thing. And not because the coffin was a ten-foot iron sarcophagus that could have withstood a total cave-in, or because it kept the Night Mother's dried-up corpse in a standing position. That fool Cicero had been babbling about how vital it was that he took care of the Night Mother's body, and then after the first week, he'd simply left.

Over the past two weeks, no one had dared to go near the coffin. Even Festus himself wanted to give it a wide berth. For some reason, it was even more foreboding without Cicero standing watch over it. Any time anyone asked Astrid what they were going to do, the answer was always the same: Respect the Night Mother's remains, and wait for their Keeper to return.

Astrid probably would have loved nothing more than to take the oh-so-respected Night Mother and dump her in the pond outside, coffin and all. But besides that the coffin was too heavy, she seemed to have some other plans. She was waiting for Cicero to come back, and no one knew why. Festus didn't like it. The Dark Brotherhood didn't exist to be host to power struggles or political intrigue. It existed to _solve _such struggles. Generally with a healthy dose of violence.

And amid this all, in the Keeper's absence, they'd received news that the dragons had returned to Skyrim. Festus was darkly amused by how little a reaction that had gotten out of anyone. Their collective logic seemed to be, unless someone put a price on the World-Eater's head, they had no business getting involved. Not that this was one best left to the heroes. Not that any bounty would probably end up paying for their own burial. Just that no one had told them to step in.

Festus enjoyed the imagery of one of these dagger-swinging sneaky types trying to get the drop on a dragon. It almost made him want to set up a fake contract just to see how spectacularly his own Dark Brothers and Sisters would fail to complete it. But that would violate the fifth of the Five Tenets, of course, and unlike some people, he paid actual attention to those.

When Cicero did come back, Festus was busy in the laboratory, experimenting with his stock of alchemy reagents. He might have actually failed to notice the Keeper's return at all, except that it was marked by a voice from the main cavern shrieking, "Who is that?!"

Now, this Festus had to see.

He hurried his way out to the cavern with surprising speed for a man his age. A talent borne of a lifetime of running for it after incinerating his targets in broad daylight. But he still expected that he'd be the last to arrive out there. The last he'd checked, everyone else was already in the cavern.

Besides himself, and counting Cicero, there were seven active members of the Dark Brotherhood. Arnbjorn and Babette were out handling contracts right now, so for the moment, this number was five. But in the cavern, there were six.

A boy, probably a Nord, probably no older than ten or eleven. Standing right there by Cicero's side. The poor child looked petrified.

No one had noticed Festus yet. For the moment, he hung back and watched.

"He is a guest! A guest of the Dark Brotherhood's hospitality!" Cicero was babbling and squealing like normal. "The Night Mother, she would demand it! She would demand, oh yes, she would _demand_ that we treat him well! Our honored guest, heehee!"

Astrid was standing right in front of the Keeper and his boy. Her arms were folded. She had her back to Festus. She said, "What are you doing, Cicero? Is this a joke?"

"A joke? No!" Cicero's voice dropped into a hysterical growl. "No, Cicero is not making a joke! This is required of us! The Night Mother—"

"Enough about the Night Mother," Astrid snapped. "You've brought an uninitiated boy into our sanctuary. Explain why."

Cicero went back to his high-pitched sing-song voice. "It is very simple, so simple, you only need to see! The boy was attacked! By _bandits!_" He cried out the word 'bandits' like they were his arch-nemesis in life. "Cicero had a choice! And he chose to give the boy another chance! I beg of you, mistress, wouldn't _you _do the same?"

"Probably not, no," said Astrid. That got a laugh out of the other assassins.

Festus didn't believe for a second that Cicero had rescued this boy out of the goodness of his heart. Astrid likely didn't either. But for lack of any better explanation, there was no choice but to play along.

"But a chance! A chance is all Cicero asks! You must listen, pay heed to the Keeper! Cicero begs you."

This was getting a little unsettling, even for Cicero. He was pleading with Astrid. He, the one who had started this whole struggle for power. Something was amiss here.

Who was this boy?

"Aventus," said Astrid.

The boy replied, "Yes?"

That answered that question, then.

Festus did not recognize this Aventus boy from anywhere in his travels. He was just another of Skyrim's endless horde of children. Clearly, Cicero knew something about him that no one else did. But what?

Astrid asked, "How old are you?"

"Ten," said Aventus.

"How did a boy like you end up being attacked by bandits?"

"Uh…" Aventus stammered wordlessly for a moment. "I… I was on the road to Falkreath, and we were attacked. The wagon we were on. I was getting out of Riften, because I—"

"Please, mistress, you must be gentle," Cicero cut in. "The boy is tired! A long, _wretched_ journey, and you greet him with _questions? _Where is the hospitality?! You must let him rest!" His voice suddenly turned plaintive. "That is all I ask of you...!"

Astrid sighed visibly. "So be it. Aventus, I'm sure your time on the road was quite hard for you. We don't normally have… _Guests_, but there's an empty bed you can use. Please follow me."

Aventus numbly walked across to Astrid, who put an arm around him.

"Cicero, wait here," said Astrid. "I'll talk to you in a moment."

Veezara and Gabriella came up behind Cicero before he could do anything. They didn't accost him physically, but they were standing very close by. Too close by, in fact.

As Astrid began to lead the boy away, Festus felt something he felt very rarely these days. He felt the stabbing jolt of a sudden realization. He should have realized this instantly. He was such a foolish old man! There was only one reason an overzealous Keeper like Cicero would take interest in some common boy. And Astrid, power-hungry Astrid, she was leading that boy out of everyone else's sight.

Going by the look on Cicero's face, he was having the exact same thought. But the Keeper didn't say a word. He was raising his hands in front of him, flexing his fingers. Preparing to draw his daggers.

For a split second, Festus felt as though the fate of the entire Brotherhood rested upon his shoulders. If he didn't act _now_—

"Hey! Hello there, boy!" Festus called out cheerfully, then started walking slowly towards them all. "A newcomer, eh? Haven't had one of those in a long while!"

Everyone turned around to look at him, with varying expressions. Most of the assassins didn't seem to care. Astrid looked distinctly annoyed. Cicero was as hard to read as ever. He could have been relieved, or furious. No way of knowing. But Astrid and Aventus had stopped, and that was what counted.

"Hello," Aventus said weakly.

Festus hurried his way over with as much dignity as an old man could muster. "You must have had quite a trip here!" He was smiling convincingly enough, he thought. He wasn't sure if Astrid was buying it. "On behalf of us all, I'd like to bid you welcome to the Dark Brotherhood sanctuary."

"… Thanks."

Astrid had stepped back. Cicero was walking back over to the boy, slowly. That was good. Festus really didn't care to watch Dark Brothers and Sisters killing each other. All he had to do was keep talking.

But he couldn't believe this. In the span of a few seconds, Cicero and Astrid had very nearly entered a fight to the death, and then it was like nothing had happened. Festus had known that Cicero's presence was causing tension in the Brotherhood, but not to this degree of severity.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't mean to get ahead of myself. We know so little about you. I don't suppose you're here to join our ranks?"

Aventus frowned. "You're assassins. I read about you."

"That's not a no," Festus grinned crookedly.

"I know," said Aventus.

That got a surprised look out of Astrid. And everyone else, for that matter, except for Cicero, who simply folded his arms and smiled.

"Well, young or old, any potential initiate deserves some degree of, uh…" Festus was just ten or so feet away from Aventus now. He gestured with an empty hand. "What's the word I'm looking for?"

Astrid was looking at him like he'd forgotten to put on any clothes today. She said, "The last I recall, Festus, it's _my_ decision whether anyone joins."

"Oh, Astrid," Festus said mock-impatiently, "are you worried about having a child in our ranks? That didn't stop anyone with Babette."

"Babette is three hundred years old!"

"She's too small to fit into our uniform, that's what counts." Seeing Aventus' confusion, Festus changed his focus. "Babette is one of our long-time members. She looks to be about your age, but appearances can be deceiving. She's actually a vampire."

Aventus stared at him silently.

"She's not in right now," Festus said.

"You have a vampire."

"We have a vampire, a werewolf, a crazy jester," Festus nodded to Cicero, who didn't react, "a tamed frostbite spider, a secret door, and a whole lot of other things too. We're the Dark Brotherhood. Those whose tendencies make them unwelcome in their own walks of life—they're welcome here. That's what we are, boy. Outcasts who look after each other."

Aventus looked from Festus, to Cicero, to Astrid, then back to Festus. "I'm sorry. This all sounds good, but I really… Really don't understand what I'm doing here. Can someone please explain this to me?"

"I think I know what this is about. If it's all right with you, Astrid—and you, Cicero—I propose we settle this right now. " Festus smiled. "So, Aventus. Have you ever seen a dead body?"

Three minutes later, everyone was assembled in the chamber overlooking the cavern. This was where the Night Mother's coffin had been left. There was a great big red stained glass window on one wall here, and normally it would have offered a decent view of the cavern below, but Cicero had seen fit to put his iron monstrosity directly in the way. Now, instead of the red-tinted view, Festus was looking upon an ancient, desiccated corpse.

The Night Mother. Less than a carcass, more than a skeleton. There was skin, but it was gray and papery, and there was seemingly no flesh beneath. And that was only where it began. Her body was only upright because it had been tied in place with ropes around her middle. She wore an ancient cloth burial shroud, or at least part of one. It served little more than to protect some semblance of modesty. Her emaciated arms were curled around herself, as though to keep herself warm. Her head was tilted over so far that it was practically touching her left shoulder. Her lips were gone. While her teeth were all where they belonged, the mouth around them was a huge, featureless hole. And her eyes. There were no eyes in her head. There were only sunken circular pits.

Cicero had been keeping this body preserved and intact for who knew how many years. All things considered, he'd done a decent job.

Curiously, Aventus was not at all disturbed by the sight. Any Dark Brother or Sister would think nothing of an old corpse like this one, but a ten-year-old boy from the outside? That was another story. Still, he sat down in front of the coffin with all the rapt attention of a child at storytime.

Everyone else was gathered around in a loose sort of semicircle. Astrid had her arms folded impatient. Cicero was practically bouncing, he was so excited. The others looked like they weren't sure what to expect. For his own part, Festus had high hopes. But until something happened, he wasn't going to start celebrating.

"We'll give it a little while," said Astrid. "But if the Night Mother isn't talking, I want this boy out of here. You didn't tell him the password, did you, Cicero?"

"Silence!" Cicero hissed. "Please, mistress! We must let! The Night Mother! Focus."

"Oh, come now. Our talking isn't going to do anything. The Night Mother's 'focus' isn't deterred by her being _dead_."

Forget the Night Mother, Festus thought. What about Aventus? How was he supposed to pay attention with these two bickering on and on? Thankfully, Cicero did not see fit to reply to that remark. The seconds stretched on in total silence. Aventus was staring intently at the Night Mother's body. If there was some kind of exchange taking place right now, he was the only living being in he room who could hear it.

A minute passed. The assassins were starting to glance at each other. No one seemed to want to interrupt, but this was taking a while.

All of a sudden, Aventus turned and looked up at Cicero. He didn't say a word. His face was white as a sheet.

"What is it?" Cicero asked. "Sweet boy, what is it?"

"The Night Mother spoke to me," Aventus said quietly. "I'm the Listener."

Festus wasn't sure what brought it on, but all the Dark Brothers and Sisters in the room suddenly decided to respond by cheering. Even Astrid smiled.

"Cicero is so _glad!_" He certainly looked glad. He looked like he was practically about to start tearing his own hair out, he was so glad. "So long! So long, Cicero wished the Night Mother would speak, and she _has_! She has, she has, she has!"

So it was true. Aventus Aretino was chosen by the Night Mother to be the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood. Festus was sure that Astrid had suspected the same thing. He supposed not everyone wanted to do the same thing with this news. Particularly seeing as they'd already established that Astrid wanted the boy out of the picture. Permanently.

"Wait," Astrid said. "How did you know?"

"Cicero had a feeling! An instinct. Cicero crossed paths with the wagon, and saw the boy, Aventus Aretino, and realized, _this _was the one! This _is_ the one! Hail Sithis! Praise Sithis! The Night Mother has spoken!"

Astrid ignored him. "Aventus. Relax. It's just a spooky communing sort of thing. You're fine."

"No, it's… It's not that," said Aventus. "She wants you to go speak to someone to arrange a contract. I know this person. I mean, I heard about this person."

"Who?"

Aventus took a breath and then said, "Maven Black-Briar."

**I'm noticing that the chapters pertaining to the Dark Brotherhood are taking extra long for me to write. I wonder if this is connected to my pretty much never doing their questline when I play through Skyrim.**


	11. Malyn

Circa 4E 200

Azura's Star Interior

A realm beyond the Aurbis. Beyond mortal limits of wheres and whens. Here, Malyn Varen, conqueror of the Daedra, conqueror of death itself, would live forevermore.

A punishment? A prison? This was glory of mortals over the wicked, of purity over the plague, of victory over the abyss. He had defeated Azura, the Daedric Prince, the secret villain behind the vision. He, alone, after the naysayers and deceivers of the College had cast him out, as Azura sent her foul influence, clawing and prying, never ceasing, never ceasing, until the final strokes had set, at the moment when Malyn Varen stepped out of the darkness, into the brilliance of eternity.

This was no punishment. Those wretched closed minds in the College had called him mad, but he cared not. He knew better than they did the secrets of Azura's Star. He knew what they had chosen to ignore, for their squeamishness, for their weakness, and he had strength, he had courage and his resolve had sufficed and he knew. The Star was the key to the ascension, that which all mortals dreamed and feared to reach out and claim, and for what?

They were as pathetic as bugs in the earth, all of them, their minds too narrow to understand the true breadth. Malyn had chosen to face a Daedric Prince, embroiled in a battle to end all battles, and in the meanwhile, the bugs ranted endlessly of their own feeble constructions. Of right and wrong, as they liked to call it, as though that rendered it greater, as though it meant anything compared to the might and will of the Daedra themselves, or the other thing. They did not even reach to strain against the shackles of the Daedra, the oppressors of all, for they had already shackled themselves in ways beyond even Daedric power, and they dared to call him mad. This was no punishment. This was choice, this was glory, this was immortality, but this was no punishment.

It had been a long, arduous journey. The souls of men and mer were black, and Azura's Star was meant to hold only white souls, lesser souls. Yet he needed its strength, for it outshone all other soul gems, it outlasted, it endured. He alone had made the great transformation. The great binary release, the switch from closed to open. His body in the mortal world was no longer relevant. The Black Star was his home.

There were those who had chosen to follow him, of course. Loyal servants, but no more than a means to the final of the ends, for while their loyalty could be found in others, there was only one mortal who had succeeded. Only one who had stood before Azura, naked of all defenses and secrets, and not only lived to tell the tale, but lived in the brilliant light of eternity, true and full, forever wrought in the form of triumph. The Black Star was his home, his solace, his reward. The final of the ends had not always been, but would always be.

This realm was beyond the Aurbis, and yet it was one that could be seen and heard and touched, as with any other. Malyn looked upon towers and spires and plateaus of crystalline blue. Like the endless sands of Time, this realm changed and shifted as it saw fit, changing over time, rearranging over time. Sometimes Malyn was alone here. Sometimes his friends joined him. Sometimes a sacrifice would arrive, briefly. It all mattered little. The changes within the Star remained to this very moment a mystery. Perhaps one day, once he had spent long enough here, he would understand every corner of how it worked. But he did doubt it, for while overcoming the Daedra was a feat never before accomplished by mortals, it was another matter entirely with that thing.

A deep voice spoke to Malyn, "Greetings."

The friends were not here. This was not the voice of one he had encountered. The accursed Azura could not reach him here, not with the artifact wrested from her grasp, and so Malyn knew himself to rest in security. And yet the voice remained. The word left a lingering trail in his mind, metal scraping against glass, a cutting gouging shrillness, echoing. This was not right.

Malyn spoke, "Who are you?"

"Did you believe, truly—" Enough! Malyn would not tolerate the foul presence of this intruder in his realm, his rightful realm, beautiful realm, meant to be safe from unwanted strokes of ill luck. And yet the voice continued to speak, from everywhere and nowhere, beyond the wheres and whens, simply in existence, and yet not right. "—that you had ever escaped our reach?"

"Out." His voice rose. "Out! This is my realm now! You _will_ not disturb it!"

His voice rose, but his mind cracked. He felt it. Metal crushing into glass. The foreign pestilence of the eyes and mouth and voice of the Daedra was not as this. The Daedra were a lesser illusion, creating illusions lesser still. There was a thing beyond the idea of the Daedra, which Malyn would not confront, for he knew that to do so would endanger more than he could sacrifice.

"There is nothing to disturb. You, mortal, have always known this," uttered the voice.

"No. I have _never_ known that! You will tell me who you are."

"I am a friend of a friend. This is all you need to know."

A lie. Malyn needed to know nothing. A carefully worded construct of a sentence, this was, for it was not a simple matter of there being nothing which he needed to know. Malyn knew only enough of this thing to know that to know of its nature was a danger to endeavor to understand.

He spoke to the voice, "Explain yourself. You have come here unbidden."

"Azura does not smile upon those who defile her blessings. She made an arrangement to have you … dealt with."

A threat was not necessary to convey the meaning of this demon's whims. But Malyn remained safe here. He simply had to believe that he was safe here. Azura had failed to affect him within the protection of the Black Star, and so would this stranger. They were only words.

"She has been displeased that you have remained out of her reach. But your defenses are not enough to save you. I have come to show you the solution to the greatest mystery of your world."

Realization dawned.

'They were only words,' oh, how Malyn wished he could retract that thought. In that instant, he suddenly understood not whom this voice belonged to, but what this voice intended to do to him. His only defense would be to simply keep himself from listening, from letting the prickly black tendrils of knowledge-death enter his mind.

"It is commonly believed that the world exists within a system of… Logical rules. This is a mortal construction. A flimsy lie. Their minds are too narrow to accept what is beyond their reality. The knowledge of what lies beyond their limited world would destroy them."

Malyn would not believe that this vile grating voice was as all-knowing as it seemed to imply. He would not believe that after all that had been sacrificed, all he had done to ensure his eternity in the Black Star, his future could be undone by a stranger, a disembodied stranger, acting as though he had the answers for questions incapable of being answered. But the grating would not cease. His concentration did nothing.

"You believe you are safe here. You believe that visions from the Daedra cannot hurt you. You are wrong. I will destroy you by telling you the truth."

The sensation was unbearable, metal rending through glass, tearing at the corners of the thoughts. Screeching shrill nothingness. This did not belong in his mind, it did not belong, it would not belong, it would kill him if he understood. He had always known that it would.

The other thing. The forbidden thing. The thing beyond even the Daedra. The truth behind the illusion all mortals made their shackles in. This was the metal and the glass. There were no words. There was nothing.

His mind was incomplete. He was not dying, this was worse. Every passing moment, the thoughts inside his head were being invalidated. Disproven. They were vanishing. He could not remember what they had been.

Metal screaming, glass screaming. He had to stand for something, there was so little left, he had to make a stand, he had to retreat within his thoughts, within his own crumbling thoughts, and ignore everything else, he had to ignore everything else, he was losing it all but he had to ignore everything else, he had to ignore something, he had to, he had to do something, he had to do it. He no longer knew what.

There was pain. It made no sense, but there was pain. Darkness closed in.

He stared into the abyss. A single eye stared back at him.

No, he would not let this happen. This could not happen

This was not happening

Not like this

"Goodbye, mortal."

NO NO NO NO

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	12. Heimskr

Sundas, 9:02 AM, 31st of Last Seed, 4E 201

Whiterun

"BUT YOU WERE ONCE _MAN!_ AYE! AND AS MAN, YOU SAID, 'LET ME SHOW YOU THE POWER OF _TALOS STORMCROWN_, BORN OF THE"

Sometimes Heimskr despaired.

"NORTH, WHERE _MY BREATH_ IS LONG WINTER!' I BREATHE NOW, IN ROYALTY, AND RESHAPE HIS LAND"

What was he even doing out here? No one was listening to him.

"WHICH IS MINE! I DO THIS FOR YOU, RED LEGIONS, FOR _I LOVE YOU!_ AYE, LOVE! _LOVE!_ EVEN AS MAN, TALOS"

Every day, he came out here and preached. And every day, he hoped he might reach out to just one errant soul. But if this was working, he had no way of knowing. All the travelers and merchants coming through the Wind District, and none of them ever so much as stopped to listen to him.

"CHERISHED US! FOR HE SAW IN US, IN _EACH_ OF US, THE FUTURE OF _SKYRIM! _THE FUTURE OF _TAMRIEL! _AND"

Maybe the travelers of Skyrim just weren't very religious.

Whiterun's shrine to Talos was a good place to preach from, he thought. It was right in front of the Gildergreen, which meant it was at nearly the exact center of Whiterun. Anyone going to Dragonsreach, Jorrvaskr or the Temple of Kynareth would pass him by. Unfortunately, passing him by was exactly what everyone did.

Someone was coming down the stairs from Dragonsreach. A man, in a legionnaire's uniform. He walked into Heimskr's field of vision and said, "Good morning."

"THERE IT IS, FRIENDS! THE UGLY—oh, hello."

The man was wearing an Imperial Legion uniform. Strong build, blond hair, beard resembling the Jarl's. Heimskr recognized him as Idolaf Battle-Born. Certainly not a traveler by any means. And not a friend to any true son or daughter of Skyrim.

The Battle-Born family had always supported the Empire. Not Skyrim—the Empire. They had forsaken their kinsmen and discarded their honor, and for what? What had the Empire done for them? Those sun-tanned tyrants from the south had ruled over them for generations, building castles and fortresses, paving roads across the countryside, bringing in their foreign trade goods, fighting off the Forsworn and Falmer and cultists and bandits, all right maybe they'd done a few things. Anyway, Heimkr and Idolaf had no words to exchange today. And yet here they stood, regarding one another.

Was the legionnaire here to antagonize him? To threaten him with the Empire's iron fist of punishment? It certainly wouldn't have been the first time someone had tried. Heimskr didn't fear this man. There came a certain confidence from knowing Talos was on his side. No one could take that away from him. But still, this did not bode well.

"I thought maybe we could take a minute to talk," said Idolaf.

"Oh. Well, certainly. What, ah… How may I help you?" It was unlike a priest to stumble over one's words. But Heimskr had been expecting Idolaf to say something very different.

"I just wanted to talk to you about Talos," Idolaf shrugged. "It's been a long time coming."

Talos be praised, this was a chance to bring a legionnaire into the light! Heimskr barely clung to the hope that anyone would take his words to heart. Now a pawn of the Empire—a good Nord, to be sure, but a part of the oppressive machine—was coming to him with an open mind. Heimskr never would have dreamt of this day.

"Well, you've most certainly come to the right person! What exactly did you want to know about?"

Idolaf sat down heavily on the low stone wall before the shrine, and slowly looked up at him. "Mainly, uh… I dunno. I feel like we should be talking. With everything that's going on these days."

It had never quite occurred to Heimskr that this wall could be used as a bench. But all the same, he sat down upon it, just by Idolaf's left. "Please, speak your mind."

The legionnaire leaned forward, resting his elbows upon his knees, and rubbed his eyes as he spoke. "It's… It's the dragons. Nothing's been the same ever since they returned."

Truth be told, Heimskr had no idea what to say about the dragons. They were the offspring of Akatosh, not Talos. Also, they'd been gone for thousands of years, so the historical texts on the matter amounted to a few mythic tales and songs. Heimskr imagined he'd have as much luck trying to educate Idolaf about the secret menace of mammoth cheese atronachs.

"This is crazy," Idolaf said through his fingers. "The end times have begun. Remind me what we're killing each other for?"

Heimskr was no warrior, but he had to assume Idolaf was referring—disparagingly, of course, given his unfortunate loyalties—to the Stormcloak Rebellion. The one beacon of hope and freedom in this cold land. Ulfric Stormcloak was a man who refused to bend to the Thalmor's rule. They might have used their 'peace treaty' with the Empire to enforce their oppressive will, but Ulfric, clever man, he'd come up with a solution—remove the Empire from Skyrim. The Thalmor would have no support to stand upon.

Heimskr looked forward to the day he could proclaim his love without fear. Yes, he held Talos in the embrace of love. It was only fair, after all. Even in mortal life, Talos had loved all mankind, and…

Actually, he was going to stop that thought right there. It was quite enough for him to speak in terms of divine praise from sunup to sundown. He didn't need his own litany echoing in his head and keeping him up at night. (The alchemist had recommended a mind-calming potion for him. He didn't appreciate the sentiment that the will of Talos could be suppressed with extract of lavender and feathers or something.)

The Stormcloak Rebellion, though. Idolaf was asking some strange questions.

"I… I believe you would be best off asking Jarl Ulfric," Heimskr said.

Idolaf squinted up at him. "Is that a joke?"

"… I don't know. You asked me."

"Right, so answer."

What was the question, again? Something about Nords killing each other? Heimskr was fairly certain that was it. (He also didn't appreciate the sentiment that the will of Talos was giving him trouble sleeping to begin with.)

"We are fools to be fighting one another," Heimskr said. "The Empire belongs in Cyrodiil, away from here. Yet honorable Nords like yourself still flock to their cause. It mystifies me."

Idolaf was sitting up now. He scowled. "What, you don't think we have reasons for supporting the Empire?"

Heimskr shook his head slowly. "I think you've lost your way. You've forsaken the man made Divine, the one who gave us everything we have. I almost wonder if the dragons are his will. If they're here to exact some sort of retribution for all our failures."

"Well, I've heard you talk about the Emperor before. I think a lot of people have."

Idolaf didn't get to say anything more, because Heimskr started laughing. "Have—Have they, ah—have they really, now? I can never quite… ah… Tell. To be honest."

"Well, I've heard you _yell_ about the Emperor before." Idolaf paused. "How do you even do it? Day after day. Your throat must be like a wad of shredded meat by now, all the strain on your voice. How can you still even talk?"

At this question, Heimskr felt a swelling of pride he seldom felt. He smiled. "It happens that I attended the Bards College when I was younger. I used to live in Solitude, you see."

Idolaf half-nodded, half-shrugged. "Huh. I did not know that. Guess it explains why I never saw you around when I was a boy."

"Well, it's the truth."

"But you don't live in Solitude anymore. You live in Whiterun. You own a house here."

"After a time, I ended up serving in the Temple of the Divines. And then the White-Gold Concordat was signed, and… Things changed, to say the least. I knew I'd never find any sympathy in the Empire's nest, so I came here. You're the first person to ever ask me this. Did you know that?"

"How did you even afford a house?"

Heimskr smirked a little. "If I could afford housing in Solitude, I can afford housing in Whiterun."

The truth was that he'd simply made quite a lot of money in his time. In such a coarse and wild land as Skyrim, the art of performance was a precious rarity. These days, he offered his services for free—after a fashion. He just came out here and did what he was good at.

Despite that no one ever seemed to listen to him, Heimskr rather preferred it this way. When he wasn't working for pay, he didn't have to perform what anyone felt like hearing from him. Giving voice to the word of Talos every day was quite preferable to having to play Ragnar the Red for the twenty-six millionth time.

Still, Idolaf seemed unfazed. "Well, as I was saying, I've heard you talk about the Emperor. You don't like him. You think he's a coward. Am I right?"

Heimskr nodded gravely. "You remember my words well. The Emperor should never have agreed to the elves' terms."

"All right. Let me ask you something, Heimskr. What would you have done? If you were Emperor Titus Mede the Second, faced with the decision he was faced with. What would you have chosen to do then?"

Now, Heimskr wasn't much for governance. He didn't know all the workings of the Imperial City. For that matter, he'd never even been to the place. But he'd still asked himself this very question quite a many times. The only thing he could ever seem to agree on with himself was that banning Talos worship was a bad idea.

But it wouldn't do for Idolaf to hear that he was so unconfident on the matter—he was still trying to be a priest here, after all—so he said, "If the Emperor wished to remain true to the very god who turned Cyrodiil into the land it is now, he had his time to make that choice. But instead, he turned his back on—"

"You have no idea what else he could've done, do you?"

Or Idolaf could see straight through him and he'd have to improvise.

"Oh, please," he scoffed. "This is not as complicated as you make it out to be. The White-Gold Concordat's terms were unacceptable. He should have had them change it. He should have… just…"

Actually, the Bards College hadn't really taught him improvisation.

Idolaf smiled darkly. "I forced your hand. See how it feels? The Dominion did that to us."

Heimskr didn't reply.

"They did give us a choice. Agree to the White-Gold Concordat, and yes, declare Talos worship illegal. Or refuse it, and continue a war we couldn't afford to continue. Let me ask you something else, Heimskr. How many Nords are you willing to kill for us to be able to publicly do this worship?"

Heimskr still didn't reply.

"The Emperor had a chance to save the lives of thousands of his citizens. He wasn't going to get another. Talos worship was a small price to pay. And you know, the Empire was fine with just not enforcing the ban, until your hero Ulfric Stormcloak made a big stink out of it, and—forced the Empire's hand. Again. So when you're calling the Emperor a coward, I don't know what in Oblivion you're talking about."

Even now, no one was paying any attention to them. There were commoners and nobles passing by alike, as always, and they didn't care. A city guard came sprinting up from the Plains District, and went right past them to Dragonsreach. No one paid any attention to him either.

Heimskr took a deep breath. He really had to reply at this point.

"We lost something when we agreed to the Concordat," he said, quietly. "We saved some number of lives, for now. But we lost something, and I hope—I honestly, desperately hope that we can find it once again. Talos was Tamriel's greatest hero in mortal life. He shaped this world, and he shaped us. He's the only Divine to not also be one of the Aedra, the ones who existed at the beginning of all things. He's the only Divine to be born a mortal, and as long as…"

Where was he going with this? He stopped and took a breath. Idolaf started to say something, but he held up a hand and the legionnaire went silent again.

"We live in a cruel world, Idolaf. We live at the mercy of magical beings, evil cults, Daedric Princes, things too great for us to ever imagine fighting. Conquering them would be like stopping the sun from rising and setting. It will simply never happen. We live in a world without any say in how it works. We live in a world without hope."

His hand curled into a fist, with one pointed finger. "Except."

"Except for one man. One mortal man, who managed to defy every restriction we took for granted. Every eternal curse, every bleak reality of being a mortal in a world ruled by gods. He took those things, and he overcame them. He became the Ninth Divine. He showed us that we don't have to resign ourselves to what we see as our lot in life. He _is_ the proof that the world doesn't need to be the cruel place it is.

"And when the Emperor signed the Concordat, he did save many lives. And I, myself, honestly do not know for sure what I would have done in his position. I was not there for it. But I do know this: We did lose something. And if the elves of the Aldmeri Dominion have their way, we'll never get it back. They have done their utmost to take away our will to resist them, and they will continue to take from us, until there is nothing left. They would have us resign ourselves to the very helplessness that Talos ascended to save us from. And for whatever justification he saw, the Emperor did set this all in motion.

"I stand out here every day, Idolaf, preaching the word of Talos. Why do you think I do it? For gold? For the… For the sport of it? I do this because I feel the spirit of Talos in me. I feel the love for mankind that he felt. And I want all of us to remember what he did. He did something that no mortal had ever done before, and no mortal has ever done since, and it's not simply that he ascended to godhood. He showed us that we are destined to command the world, not submit to it. That we may one day live in a world free of suffering and loss, and be our own masters forevermore. I stand out here every day trying my best to remind my brothers and sisters of that future."

A time went by when neither of them spoke. The only sound was the distant chatter of the townspeople. Heimskr was struggling to remember what Idolaf had come to him for. It seemed like it would be rude (and maybe a little dim-witted, and again unlike a priest) of him to ask.

Something to do with dragons. He wanted to know what the war meant in the presence of dragons. With the end times finally upon them. What a curious question that was to ask a priest of Talos. Heimskr suspected it was because he was the only vocal supporter of Stormcloaks in Whiterun, besides the Gray-Manes. And to the best of his knowledge, the Battle-Borns and Gray-Manes weren't on speaking terms anyway.

"It's truly sad," he said, "that we, the people of Skyrim, are spilling our own blood in war with one another. And in the face of the dragons' return… Yes. It truly does feel more pointless than it ever did before. I cannot agree with the decisions the Empire has made. But I think we can all agree that the rift between Empire and Stormcloak should never have been created. Talos would not have wished this upon us."

Idolaf wiped his hand across his eyes. They were a little red. He sniffed a little, and cleared his throat and said, "Thank you for explaining yourself to me."

Heimskr smiled softly. "It's my pleasure. I wish more people would stop and talk to me. I'm always here for all of you."

"They probably will, if you keep doing the thing you do. You're very hard to miss." Idolaf paused. "I never thought I'd be saying a kind word to an enemy of the Empire. My father would be awfully confused if he saw me right now."

"Well, you can tell your father… Whatever you like, actually." Heimskr shrugged. "I'm here to help, not to command."

In actuality, he mainly didn't want to arouse Olfrid Battle-Born's ire. The will of Talos might have been on his side, but that was no excuse for picking a fight with what amounted to a bystander. Yes, Olfrid, patron of the great Clan Battle-Born, was a bystander to him. It was truly a good thing that he didn't say everything he thought.

A noise was coming from up by Dragonsreach. Footsteps, and lots of them. Heimskr turned to see a whole line of people coming down the stairs. The Jarl's housecarl Irileth was leading them, followed by the court wizard Farengar, followed by some man in polished steel armor, followed by a whole lot of guards. They were moving very briskly. Almost running. The whole lot of them went right by without a word. Everyone on the streets just stared.

And then it was over, and they were gone.

"I'd… Better get back up to Dragonsreach," Idolaf said. "See what this is about."

Heimskr nodded. "As you will."

Both of them stood up at the same time.

"Divines be with you, Idolaf Battle-Born. All nine of them."

"I'd say the same to you, but you seem happy enough with just the one."

And that was that. Idolaf—the Nord, the legionnaire, the man he'd just spent this time speaking to—was back to his own business. And so was Heimskr.

He took a look around himself. Whiterun was in the middle of a usual morning. Everyone was just milling around like before. And here he was, standing by the shrine of Talos, right in the middle of town.

There was only one thing to do now. He cleared his throat.

"TALOS THE MIGHTY! TALOS THE UNERRING! TALOS THE _UNASSAILABLE_! TO _YOU_ WE GIVE PRAISE! FOR ONLY THROUGH YOUR GRACE AND"


	13. Rolff

Loredas, 9:49 PM, 30th of Last Seed, 4E 201

Windhelm

Oh, what was the world coming to? When did Skyrim become a hidey-hole for freaks and animals? Was this their proud tradition now?

The Gray Quarter. Hah! Such a fitting name. The Argonians, those slippery little lizard-folk, at least they had the decency to stay out on the docks, outside the city walls. But the dark elves, no, the dark elves didn't even have that much. They clung together like the filthy den of vermin they were. They called their part of Windhelm the Gray Quarter. Their territory, not the Nords'. Not the proper owners of the city.

Well, Rolff wouldn't fall for their wiles. Some soft-hearted fools might be charmed by them, with their sob stories about how hard things were in Morrowind, but not Rolff Stone-Fist. He knew better.

So every night, he came down here to the Gray Quarter, wading into their stinking nest, to remind them that there were still some Nords they hadn't managed to trick. He was doing Windhelm a service. Even if no one appreciated it. He forgave his kinsmen for never thanking him. He forgave them, without them even asking him to. He was a good man like that.

A stinking nest. Windhelm wasn't a forgiving city. It was always icy cold, especially at night. That always made Rolff smile. Nords were built for cold like this, but dark elves, they were built for huddling around hearths and hiding indoors. He was free to roam the streets, like anyone who belonged here. But the dark elves, they had to hide inside their nests.

Actually, even that was an offense, really. Windhelm was an old, proud city. It wasn't forgiving, true, but… The whole place was a grand old maze of dark stone and white snow. Hah, no wonder the dark elves liked it here. This whole place was fireproof. They must've appreciated that, after their homeland burned up or whatever it did. Cowards. They were supposed to like the heat anyway.

Anyway, it was an offense because these were Nordic buildings, made for Nords to live in, and the dark elves were taking them up. And not just living inside them, no. They just had to put their ugly old tattered banners everywhere, too. Hanging on all the walls, ruining the proper Nord look. No respect. None. And nobody but Rolff seemed to even notice. But he forgave his kinsmen. He could do his duty.

"Go back to Morrowind, dark elf maggots! You're NOT! WELCOME HERE!"

See? He was doing his duty.

No one was out on the street, but he was sure they could hear him. This part of Windhelm was full of stairs, like the rest of it, except he had to go down them to get into the Gray Quarter, not up. How fitting. He was just taking it slow, one icy step after another. He never came down here without a bellyful of mead. Helped distract him from how awful the Gray Quarter's existence was. But by the Nine, were things swimming around a little. One step after another.

His throat was probably going to get a little sore from all the shouting. He didn't care. Nothing a good drink couldn't handle.

"This is OUR LAND! Do you hear me?"

They probably heard him. But they were all too cowardly to come out here and face him. Pathetic little worms, all of them.

"You're trespassers! You hear me? You're trespassing in true Nord territory! You're ruining this city! And no one likes you! No one likes what you do! And your cooking is disgusting!"

What was he even talking about?

Someone was coming. Up ahead, past all the buildings with the ugly banners on them. Not a dark elf. A Nord. Rolff started to smile, but then realized it was actually an Imperial. He knew this man. Strange fellow. He didn't belong in Windhelm, plain as day, but people like him didn't belong anywhere anyway.

"Hail," the man called out.

"Calisto," he answered. "Cal-Calixto. What're you doing in this pigpen?"

"I could ask the same thing of you!" Calixto walked up closer. He was wearing a fancy dark red coat or something. No one cared.

"Oh, I come down here every night. These dark elves need a lesson in manners. You know?" Rolf grinned. Even an Imperial like him must have understood that much.

Calixto frowned, though. "Not going anyplace in particular? Tread with caution, my friend. It's not safe out here at night, you know. There's a killer on the loose."

"Who, the Butcher?" Rolff snorted. "Everyone knows he only goes for the ladies. Do I look like a lady to you?"

Rolff knew plenty about the Butcher. There were only about two thousand pamphlets about him all over Windhelm. Actually, the pamphlets just pretty much said, there is a killer named the Butcher, be careful out there, report all suspicious behavior to Viola Giordano instead of reporting it to the guards like a normal person. Rolff knew about the Butcher's targeting only beautiful girls because he lived in Windhelm and had ears.

"I suppose not," Calixto shrugged. He supposed not? Did he even know the difference between men and women? Well, he was an Imperial, so maybe the answer was no. "But still. You can't be too careful."

The realization hit Rolff like a ton of bricks. He should have known this from the instant he first learned about the Butcher. He was such a fool. He should have known. He should have known!

Calixto must have noticed the revelation, because he said, "Are you all right, Rolff?"

"I just realized," Rolff said. "The Butcher must be a dark elf."

Calixto folded his arms. "What's your thinking?"

"The Butcher is going after women, Nord women. Beautiful women. Slaughtering the prize jewels of Windhelm, one by one, and who stands to benefit from that? Eh? Who? Who in this city wants to take us Nords down a notch? I'll tell you who—the dark elves. It's obvious. You know what we ought to do? We ought to start getting some answers out of these pests. Round 'em up and find out which one's been doing it all. Or—maybe they're _all_ in on it! Who said the Butcher has to be one person? Who said—"

Rolff stepped forwards, but his foot slid ahead of him. The whole city tilted backwards. Something hard slammed into his back.

He was looking up at the black night sky. Little snowflakes were falling on his face. The back of his head hurt something awful. All of his head hurt something awful. Calixto's face appeared in front of him, and then Calixto's hand.

"Hey." Calixto snapped his fingers a couple times. It was so loud, it almost hurt. "Are you all right? You slipped on the ice."

"Yeah, m'fine…" Rolff felt awful. But he wasn't about to let some milk-drinking Imperial boss him around. He rolled over onto his elbows, and very carefully worked his way back up onto his feet. His head was throbbing, he could barely think. He turned around and gave Calixto another look.

The Imperial just looked back at him.

"Go on out of here," Rolff said.

"Are you sure?" Calixto frowned again. "I don't want to leave a man alone who might hurt himself. I'm not sure _I _want to be alone out here, with a killer at large in the city."

"Forget it. You don't have any… You don't have business in the Gray Quarter, do you?" Rolff paused. "Thought not. Go on, get… Get on out of here."

Calixto folded his arms. "Shouldn't you be saying that to the dark elves?"

"Hah! Someone who finally gets it!" Rolff laughed out loud. Finally. Finally! "We should be able to roam the Gray Quarter all we please! It's the _dark elves_ who should get out of here! HEY! YOU HEAR THAT, GRAYSKINS? YOU DON'T BELONG HERE!"

"I was making a simple observation, I'm not…"

"YOU DON'T BELOOONG HEEERE!" Rolff spun around so everyone could hear him. He almost fell over again, but he ended up just sitting on the ground. And getting back up, of course. The ground was cold. He didn't like sitting on it, Nord hardiness or no. He was sort of vaguely aware he was looking like a fool right now, but he didn't care. He was a Nord still. He had the right to look like a fool if he felt like it.

"You should listen to me," said Calixto. "You might be surprised to see me here, but I'm not surprised to see _you_ here. I've heard about these late-night exploits of yours. Now, as long as…." What was the man even trying to get at here? He was so confusing.

Here he was, this strange little Imperial man in his strange little coat, talking like he knew anything about Windhelm. Anything about Skyrim. How could he? He was no elf, but he didn't belong here—he belonged down in Cyrodiil, just like the dark elves belonged in Morrowind. Imperials like him were the reason Talos worship had been banned. Now everyone was at war and they'd just forgotten who'd started it all. Well, it hadn't been the Nords. They'd just wanted to live in their homeland, in peace, without killing anyone. How had that gone for them? How had it gone?

All Rolff wanted was for Nords to be able to live the Nordic way, without any of these stinking foreigners making a mess of it all. The dark elves were a menace, but the Imperials weren't much of a step up. They were so annoying. Who wanted to live next to the Vicci Azmablaggus Blacchi family? Who wanted to have to deal with merchants peddling Colovian East Empire Black Whatever? The answer was no one. No one who held true to the Nordic way, at least.

You could tell a lot about a man by his name, really. Rolff refused to make friends with anyone who had one of those brainless Imperial names. And he'd always been the better for it. You find a man with an Imperial name, or a Reach-folk name, or anything like that, they were sure to be trouble. Rolff was a Nord. He wouldn't settle for any less than friends he could be proud of. The Imperials could all just go back to their little coin-counting competition, for all he cared. And the Reach-folk could all go back to their… Tents, or something. And as for the dark elves, well, those people could all just jump in the ocean and that'd be fine.

Maybe they'd be able to swim back to Morrowind that way, too. Or Solstheim. Some big old ash pit or other. It didn't matter. Rolff didn't want any part in it. He had plenty of worries here at home. They all did, even if not everyone was as willing to face the threats to their way of life as he was.

"…and so please, heed my words," Calixto was saying. "I doubt I can explain the matter any better than this. Do you understand? Just… Just say yes or no, that should suffice, please…?"

"Yes. Don't worry about me." Rolff smiled and nodded. "But still. You shouldn't be here."

A door opened a little distance behind Calixto's back. Someone stepped out, but they were wearing robes, and a hood. Forget figuring out if they were a man or elf, Rolff didn't even know if they were a man or woman.

Calixto scoffed. "I just told you why I'm here, if your memory serves. Besides, the last I checked, the streets of Windhelm were open to all of us, residents and visitors alike."

"Come on, Calixto, don't be like that. You know the Gray Quarter is—"

It all happened so fast. Rolff barely knew what happened. One second, Calixto was talking like normal, and the next, there was an axe in the man's neck! Blood was everywhere. He was gagging and gurgling and clawing at the axe head. He fell to his knees.

Standing behind him was the robed figure. A dark elf. Rolff was right! This was the Butcher! Here in front of him! Face-to-face with the worst monster in Windhelm!

Rolff's limbs weren't listening to him. He wanted to do something, but he couldn't. He was locked up. Nothing was working. This was a nightmare. This couldn't be real. He couldn't move. He just watched, eyes wide.

The dark elf, the Butcher, gripped the axe haft in both hands, planted a foot on Calixto's back, and pulled the axe back out. It made a sickening wet noise as it left the Imperial's body. Calixto fell flat onto his front. The dark elf stepped back, then lifted the bloody axe high above his head, and with a monstrous cry, brought it down for one last strike. Right on poor Calixto's skull, like a log of firewood.

Finally, Rolff got himself to move. And he ran. He just turned and ran. As fast as he could, straight at the stairs. Out of the Gray Quarter, up towards safety. Away from this killer. He had to run. His feet flew out backwards. The ground rushed up to meet him.

"Hey. Stone-Fist. Wake up." Someone was snapping their fingers in front of his face. He opened his eyes to see a city guard kneeling over him. The sky was still dark. There was still snow.

The pain hit him all at once. All in his head. He felt so sick. His head. This was a nightmare. How was he in so much pain? What had he done?

"Some real Nord heroism from you tonight, eh?" The guard chuckled. His face was hidden behind that strange metal visor all the guards had. "We were going to question you as a witness, but the Jarl already has proof. There's no longer any need."

"Whgbghl…" Rolff blew some air out through his lips and tried again. "What? Where's the elf?"

"The elf you saw was actually Revyn Sadri. As in the owner of Sadri's Used Wares. Turns out old Calixto was the one we've been calling the Butcher. There was quite an investigation. I hear it's fascinating stuff."

What? Calixto, the Butcher? Poor dead Calixto? The man was dead. How could he be a killer? You couldn't kill anyone if you were dead. Everyone knew that. Besides if you were a ghost, anyway. Or a zombie, or a draugr. But the Butcher was probably not a draugr, so, the point stood.

Damn, his head hurt.

The guard said, "Sadri wants to apologize to you for scaring you like that. He wanted to stop the Butcher then and there, before he could kill again."

Sadri did what? None of this made any sense. Rolff tried to get up onto one elbow, then thought better of it and just scowled. "You… Didn't wake me before?"

"No, we thought it was kind of funny how you landed. Didn't want to disturb you."

Rolff stared.

The guard shrugged. "Well, you're awake now."

There were two possibilities. One, the guard was lying. Two, the guard wasn't lying. But if the guard was lying, then he should've been dead too. The Butcher should've—or Sadri should've killed him too. If he wasn't lying, though…

Rolff just repeated his question from before. "Where's… The elf?"

"In the Palace of the Kings, I think. Receiving special commendation from the Jarl. He's a hero, you know. Took it upon himself to do what we couldn't. He always made a point of staying on our side of the law, but I didn't realize he was so bent on being a good citizen."

Jarl Ulfric was recognizing a dark elf as a hero for chopping a man's head open in the street at night. This was the situation they were in. Rolff closed his eyes softly. He'd be all right with just dying here. Right here on the street. Dying at peace. He could go for that. At least his head would stop hurting.

After a couple seconds, he asked, "What's your name, guard?"

"My name? Avius Alatti. I—"

"Go away."


	14. Irileth

Sundas, 9:10 AM, 31st of Last Seed, 4E 201

Whiterun

Intellect. The ultimate decider in success or failure. Nord warriors liked their strength, and elven mages liked their magic, but all the talent in the world was worthless if one didn't know how to put it to use.

A dragon, a creature of ancient myth, was attacking the Western Watchtower. But Irileth and her associates passed through Whiterun at a brisk striding pace. This wasn't as inappropriately slow as it seemed. The reasoning was twofold: One, running upon the stairways and cobblestones of Whiterun was generally ill-advised, and two, the sight of the Jarl's housecarl, the court wizard, and a band of men-at-arms all sprinting frantically through the city could very well induce a mass panic.

Given the circumstances, a mass panic wasn't entirely unjustified. Even Irileth herself observed that she was feeling much more fear within her than normal for a fight. But dragons were not eternal spirits. They were living creatures of flesh and blood. And in her experience, if a creature lived, it could die.

The moment her group exited the city gates, they broke into an all-out run. A giant, winged silhouette was circling around the Western Watchtower. Smoke was rising from it.

The Western Watchtower lay just under a mile beyond the city walls. Its original purpose was unclear—common speculation was that it had once served to deter raids from the Reachmen—but it was now used as an outpost and lookout point for the Whiterun Hold guards. There were usually about half a dozen guards on duty there at any given time.

The first report of this dragon had come from one such guard. Irileth did not know what fate had befallen the other five. They would find out soon enough.

Or, depending on fate's whimsy today, they would find out too late.

Irileth, Farengar Secret-Fire, the man from Helgen, and a handful of city guards. All of them, running like their lives depended on it. That was likely the truth.

This winged silhouette was truly a dragon. Its roars were echoing over the plains. Every now and then, it swooped over the tower and bathed the stone masonry in a jet of flame from its mouth.

Irileth wondered if her Dunmer blood would be enough to keep that from killing her instantly. If anything, she supposed, it would only prolong her suffering.

Once they approached close enough, the dragon stopped looking like a silhouette. Its scales were a lustrous warm gray, dark against the bright blue sky. No one had seen these creatures in thousands of years. Under other circumstances, it might have been a thing of beauty.

But today, it was only a thing to kill.

Intellect. The ultimate decider in success or failure.

There was no engaging a flying target with melee weapons. For everyone but Farengar, and possibly that man from Helgen, they would be stuck using bows and arrows.

The dragon moved faster than any creature could on land. And its fire-breathing attack was a guaranteed kill on a direct hit. No blocking, no dodging. The only safe place was inside the tower.

First they had to actually get to the tower. Most likely, not all of them would make it. But also most likely, at least a few of them would. An acceptable risk.

Still keeping her eyes on the dragon, still sprinting as fast as her legs could carry her, she called out, "Ready arrows! And spread apart!"

The truth was, they were already quite spread apart as it was. After a near-mile of travel, even a tiny difference in running speed would add up. She would have given Farengar further instructions in particular, but she suspected he was too far behind to even hear.

Still, she took her own bow in hand, and nocked a single, steel-tipped arrow. Still running. Still heading right for the tower. The dragon circled high into the sky, out of view. Perhaps this could work after all.

Behind her, the man from Helgen shouted, _"DOWN!"_

Irileth instantly dropped flat onto her chest. Her forearms skidded into the soft earth. A thunderous rush of air blew over her back. She looked up to see the dragon not a stone's throw ahead, flying away, its clawed feet outstretched.

It had meant to grab someone. Possibly Irileth herself. Well done, Helgen-warrior.

The steel arrowhead had gotten stuck in the ground. It would have taken about one second to pull back out. Irileth didn't have one second to spare. She picked up her bow and sprinted the rest of the way to the tower.

There was burning debris everywhere. Burning wood scaffolding, burning dry grass. She could feel the heat on her face even from a fair distance away. It forced her to take a crooked, erratic path to the tower's entrance. Up the steep, rough stone ramp, up the short staircase at the top. In through the open doorway.

Four uniformed guards were hiding in here. One was down on her back, unconscious, on top of a bedroll, her helmet removed. Her right arm was burned black from the wrist to the shoulder. It turned Irileth's stomach to see.

The other three said something acknowledging to her, but she wasn't listening. She moved out of the way as the Helgen warrior came in after her, and some of the city guards after him. The Helgen warrior knelt down over the guard and started casting restoration magic.

He was probably better at it than Farengar. Faint praise, admittedly, but still.

There wasn't much in here besides the guards. A few bedrolls, one of them obviously occupied, a small table with place settings and chairs, and a stone spiral staircase up to the roof. It was spacious enough in here to accommodate all of them comfortably, but only just.

Besides the guards themselves, nothing in here would be much use against the dragon outside. But the only thing they needed of this tower was a fireproof shelter. A place to regroup and counterattack.

The Helgen warrior stood up. The guard was still unconscious, but her arm had returned to a healthy pink. That had taken only a few seconds. There must have been a staggering amount of magicka involved just now. Irileth considered herself duly awestruck.

But as he stood up, he said, "That dragon is going to move on to the city if we don't keep him busy."

And he was right. Irileth had been starting to wonder the same thing. The dragon moved faster than any of them could. It had every opportunity to ignore them and carry on to Whiterun. And if it were injured badly enough, it could simply flee.

A challenging situation, to say the least of it. Irileth needed time. They were here in the tower, but until they devised a proper counterattack, they were effectively trapped.

"Very true," Irileth said, before turning to the guards who had followed her in. "You two," she said, pointing at the pair closest to herself. "Get up those stairs. Start feeding that beast some arrows. But don't stray too far out onto the roof."

She didn't feel the need to explain why. They'd all seen what the dragon's fire could do. But the guards obeyed her order all the same, and proceeded up the staircase with their bows at the ready.

Then she turned to the Helgen warrior. "Traveler. What are you planning on—"

At that moment, Farengar Secret-Fire came stumbling in through the door. He didn't verbally announce himself, but he was breathing so hard and loud that he may as well have. His hood had fallen down at some point. Irileth had never seen his face so red.

She asked, "Farengar, are you all right?"

Farengar didn't reply. He was busy panting.

"Listen," said the Helgen warrior. "I have a plan. You just have to keep that dragon near the tower."

Up above, Irileth heard the sound of bowstrings twanging. The guards had begun loosing arrows on the dragon. That was good. That meant the dragon was still close by enough for them to attack it. Hopefully, it also meant the dragon would stay around to try and deal with them.

They'd bought some time, but not much. It was time to prepare to truly strike back. And this fellow in the nice steel armor was saying he had a plan.

"Explain your plan," Irileth said.

The man replied, "I'm going to kill the dragon. Keep it close."

Intellect. The ultimate decider in success or failure.

Irileth had never seen this man fight before. He'd successfully obtained the Dragonstone from the ruins of Bleak Falls Barrow, but no one had seen how he'd done it. There was little reason to believe that he, of all people, would be capable of killing the dragon single-handedly. All Irileth could plan for was that he would try.

The mindset of a dragon wasn't like the mindset of a mortal. Maybe they were too fearless to consider fleeing, regardless of how a fight unfolded. But again, there was no reason to believe so. There was simply no way of knowing how this dragon would react to them. As long as this dragon was in the air, it could retreat in the blink of an eye if it saw fit.

Even the deadliest archers in the world would be useless against an enemy who could simply fly out of their reach. A different approach needed to be taken.

Intellect.

"The rest of you," she said, as the Helgen warrior started up the staircase. "We'll head back out into the open. Target the dragon's wings. We're going to bring that beast down to our level. Make use of the rubble, stay out of its fire. Move."

"By your orders," said one of the guards. She didn't even know which. But just like that, they all filed out past her, through the doorway, readying their bows and arrows.

On the way out herself, Irileth tapped their court wizard on the arm with her free hand. "You too, Farengar. We need your spells."

Farengar trailed after her like he was going to fall over then and there. "I don't care. Burn me alive. Just don't make me run any more."

The fire outside had spread. All of the brush was ablaze now. Seemingly the entire tower was surrounded in a wall of flame. The smoke was pouring into the air, making it hard to see, hard to think. And the heat—Irileth didn't just feel it on her face. She felt it through her armor.

What a good day it was to be a Dunmer. This must have been twice as bad for the guards.

Somewhere up above, the dragon was roaring. Irileth nocked and drew an arrow, and tried to follow the sound. It was going from left to right very quickly. Which meant—

The dragon swooped into view, as massive and furious as ever, circling from the right side to the left. Irileth was ready. She let her arrow fly, and half a dozen others joined it. No doubt, at least some of them would strike the dragon's left wing. A snapping jolt of lightning cut through the air and struck its exposed flank.

At least Farengar was trying.

In response, the dragon let out a blood-curdling roar—of dismay, of pain? Who knew—and wheeled around to the right. Making a wide, low 270-degree turn. Coming to face them. Every time it beat its wings, the flames on the ground beneath it fanned outward.

Irileth loosed another arrow in the dragon's direction as it made its turn, though she was sure she'd missed. There was no way to know if their arrows were even piercing this creature's scales. She hoped that the webbing of its wings would be at least possible to damage.

She hoped for that. But she planned for the dragon to retaliate entirely unscathed.

Sure enough, when the dragon came around to face the tower entrance, it slowed to something like a halt, beating its wings steadily, hovering in the air. Looming over them all. It filled practically the entire sky.

Irileth felt the fear within her suddenly surge. She observed it, and then set it aside.

The dragon was looking at them. Just looking. In a moment, it would open its mouth, and a jet of fire would come out. Irileth took a deep breath in. At least she could call for the guards to dive out of the way.

Another shape entered her peripheral vision. For a split second, Irileth didn't realize what she was looking at.

Then, for another split second, she realized she was looking at the warrior from Helgen. Directly over her head, in midair, just off the battlements of the tower roof. Arms outstretched, sword in hand.

That son of a bitch was jumping off the tower.

Onto the dragon.

He landed on the dragon's neck. And then Irileth lost sight of him. The dragon jerked backward, flailing its wings in the air, twisting and turning. It roared once again, flying this way and that, into the smoke, back around the tower, up through the air. There was no following it.

Suddenly, the dragon reappeared, right in front of the tower. It then immediately crashed into the ground. There was a deafening boom. The earth shuddered beneath Irileth's feet. It didn't simply crash, it skidded, twenty, thirty yards across the grass, until it shuddered to a halt. But it was still alive and struggling. And the man in steel armor was still clinging to its back.

It had landed too far away for Irileth to see what was going on. She bolted down the ramp, ran straight through the flaming brush—she ran through the flames, yes, she was fine, she could take the heat—and started to reach for another arrow.

But she didn't get there in time to help. She just got far enough to watch the fight end. The man raised the glinting steel blade above his head, pointed downward, like a dagger. Then, with a cry of effort, he plunged it into the back of the dragon's skull.

Intellect. One could use it to beat the odds when all else failed. Or one could completely ignore all strategy and literally leap into the fray.

The latter approach had just resulted in a dragon being killed. Perhaps it was time Irileth re-evaluated her sense of combat.

Something strange was happening up ahead. Somehow, the fire had spread to the dragon's own flesh. It was starting to burn, as though from the inside out. Its scales were peeling away, and bright orange flame was spreading beneath. Across its entire body.

Then it started to change. An energy was building up inside of it. Irileth didn't need to be a master of the arcane to know this was something magical. Something was flowing through the air. Curving around from the dragon's body to the mortal sitting atop it. It looked ethereal. And it was growing, and sharpening, until all of a sudden, a whole whirlwind of wispy white streams of fluid light was rushing forth.

And then it was gone. The dragon had been reduced to a gigantic skeleton. The warrior from Helgen sat limply on its spine.

Irileth wasn't particularly well-versed on the ways of dragons. But she knew enough to understand that this wasn't normal. No one talked about a dragon burning up and magically sending all but its bones into whoever killed it. Still, that was something for somebody else to worry about. The dragon was dead. They'd completed the mission they'd been sent out here for.

She called out, "Are you all right?"

The man slumped over and rolled off the side of the dragon's skeleton. He landed on all fours. Very slowly, he picked himself back up, at least enough to sit on the ground. By the time Irileth made it over to him, he was resting his back on the dragon's ribcage.

And it was truly massive enough to do so. It looked just as huge up close as it had from afar. The creature's skull seemed even bigger than that of Numinex, the one hanging above the Jarl's throne in Dragonsreach. The ribcage that the man rested against was spacious enough that he could have sat inside of it.

It occurred to Irileth that Farengar would go absolutely mad at the chance to hold onto some of these bones. That would be fun to watch.

The man looked up at her and said, "What in Oblivion just happened?"

"You killed a dragon, that's what happened. Here." Irileth held out her hand to help the man up. He took it with a grateful smile.

Irileth couldn't remember this man's name. She wasn't sure if he had ever said what it was, and she didn't care to ask. She knew him as the man who had brought the news of the attack on Helgen—as far as anyone knew, the sole surviving first-hand witness of the event. More recently, he was also the man who had carried out the retrieval of the Dragonstone, whatever that was for. And now he was the first person in recent memory to slay a dragon.

Perhaps it was a little late in the relationship for her to ask him what his name was again.

"Thanks," the man nodded, before looking back at the skeleton. "Are the guards all right?"

"Last I checked. No fatalities. You did some remarkable healing work."

"Thanks again. All right, look, uh… I don't know what just happened here. This dragon is a skeleton now."

Irileth shook her head. "It doesn't matter. We must return to Dragonsreach immediately. Jarl Balgruuf will want to know what took place here."

"_I _want to know what took place here," the man said, a touch irritably, before sighing and rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. "Something just happened to me. I don't really know what it was."

"We can talk about it in Dragonsreach. Let's go." Irileth waited for the man to start walking, then joined his pace.

It happened after about half a minute.

First she felt the rumble. Beneath her feet, like when the dragon had crashed into the ground. An instant later, the thunder hit. A single, deafening clap, like a crashing wave, traveling through the air, through her ears, through her bones. And then she heard the voices. All in unison, from everywhere around her, they shouted one single word.

"_DOV-AH-KIIN!"_


	15. Arnbjorn

Morndas, 11:44 PM, 18th of Last Seed, 4E 201

Ruins of Bthalft

Arnbjorn was a hunter. A very successful one. That meant he wasn't in the habit of losing pursuit of his prey. In fact, he made a point of tracking down anyone he chose to track down. There was no running from him. No hiding. That was what made him successful. That, and the huge claws and teeth when he was in beast form.

But here he was, wandering through the Rift like a complete fool, because he was looking for an actual fool. Well, probably not an actual fool. A foolish man who dressed like a f—that was not important. The important thing was that Astrid had sent him out here to keep an eye on the man, and he'd lost the trail.

Arnbjorn was a hunter. A predator. His prey had gotten away. He was not pleased.

The trail had ended on the road from Falkreath to Riften, south of Lake Honrich. Arnbjorn had tracked his quarry for a few days, and then a few hours ago, the trail had suddenly stopped. It was like the fool had just ceased to exist at some point on his journey.

There was only one good explanation. The fool had retraced his steps to some earlier point, and gone off in a completely different direction. There wouldn't be any finding him now.

Arnbjorn was not pleased.

It was a gloomy, chilly night. The cold wasn't the brisk refreshing kind that Arnbjorn enjoyed. It was the wet, clammy kind of cold, the kind that hung in the air and just got in the way. Not a positive.

The sky was completely blocked out by clouds. No moonlight, no starlight. It was practically pitch black out here. Not a positive either—for just about anyone besides Arnbjorn. He knew better than to rely all on his sense of sight. He could kill a man unarmed and blindfolded. He _had_, in the past.

People just didn't know how to use what they had. They didn't care to learn. That was why they were prey, and he was the predator.

He didn't have much tonight. But he had his senses, and he had his wits. And if those weren't enough to get him by, he would've died a long time ago.

If he couldn't keep an eye on that imbecile in the funny hat—Cicero, Arnbjorn thought he was called—at least he could head west and wait for the man to come back. Maybe he'd be coming back with something special in tow. Astrid would want to know about that in advance.

For now, though, Arnbjorn was hungry. Good thing he was a hunter.

There wouldn't be anything good near the road, and Arnbjorn didn't think much of trying to catch fish in the lake. So he went south. On foot, into the woods. He was sure he'd find some animal soon enough. Hopefully one with some real flesh on its bones.

Skyrim's woods weren't really all that wooded. The trees here were all birches. Probably the only tree Arnbjorn could identify by the bark alone, which was convenient, because it was too dark to really see their leaves. But they were spread out too far apart for their branches to even come close to touching. No forest canopy. If it were a clearer night, Arnbjorn would have been able to see just fine.

This was how well his hunt was going. He was examining trees. He was examining tree bark. He really needed to put something in his belly before he starved to death.

But the first thing he found wasn't an animal at all. It was an arch. A stone arch. This must have been part of some kind of ruin. Odd. These weren't usually so close to the roads.

He couldn't smell much in this wet air. But he smelled something living. Some creature. Maybe it was a troll, or a bear or something annoying like that. But maybe it was something he could put down without much fuss.

There were some vines hanging in the middle of the arch. Arnbjorn brushed them aside as he crept through. The moment he did, something loud rattled at his ankles. For a moment, he froze in place. Then he realized what the rattling was. It'd been too dark for him to tell. He really should've known better.

These weren't vines, they were bone chimes. They were a warning alarm. A trap. And he'd walked straight into it. So much for relying on senses besides sight.

He sighed. That noise would've scared off anything he felt like eating. It was time to go hunt someplace else. He turned to leave.

"You picked a bad time to get lost, friend."

The voice came from right behind him. He looked over his shoulder to see an orc. A big, burly orc in hide armor, holding a battleaxe in his hands. That was what the smell had been. The smell of orc. Arnbjorn suddenly found he'd lost his appetite.

But this _was_ something he could put down without much fuss.

As he turned back around, he let the beast blood surge forth within him. The hunt had truly begun. Hircine would have been proud.

His limbs lengthened. His skin grew thick with fur. His teeth turned to fangs, his nails to claws. He saw clearly.

He looked down at the green-skinned runt.

The runt looked up at him and said, "Oh, shit!"

He swiped his claws across the runt's front. The armor split open. So did skin. Blood poured out. The runt spun around and landed on his chest.

There were two more of them. Two more runts. They came screeching at him with bladed toys. Easy.

He bounded up the stairs to the nearer one, then leapt.

The runt's sword cut through the air beneath him. His claws sank into the runt's neck and collar. He vaulted over the body as it fell.

His feet collided with the farther one. They both landed on their backs. But he got up faster. He pounced.

The runt pulled out a knife. Tried to stab him in the wrist. He grabbed the runt's knife hand in his claws and twisted. The runt squealed.

He leaned down and bit the runt's throat. His mouth flooded with blood. But he spat it out.

That was it. It was over. The three were dead, and he was unhurt and safe. He could return now.

Arnbjorn would have preferred to carry on his hunt from there. If this had been some regular little bandit camp, he just might have. But this was a ruin, and he was curious.

He was feeling really hungry. But as he wandered around the ruin, he spent a good minute just letting saliva pool in his mouth and spitting it out. Getting rid of orc blood. He didn't care how hungry he was. He wasn't a vampire. He didn't drink people's blood.

In any case, he found the orcs' little supply chest before long. It was up on a wooden platform they'd built. He helped himself to some bread and ale, then went back to looking around as he sated his hunger. Bread in one hand, bottle in the other. Not exactly what he was expecting to get from his hunt, but he wasn't complaining.

It suddenly occurred to him what kind of reaction he'd get if he went back to the sanctuary and told Astrid that instead of tracking Cicero, he found an old ruin and ate some bread. He really didn't like to get on Astrid's bad side. It wasn't even about fearing her punishment. He didn't want to let her down.

It felt like their wedding had been just yesterday, but it'd been so long. They'd grown awfully close over the years. Not much of a surprise, he supposed. They were two assassins who looked at the world the same way. And if he disappointed her with the outcome of this little mission, he'd definitely feel bad about it.

A strange thing for him to think. He'd certainly never expected to think that way about anyone, or anything. And he sure wasn't going to admit this to any of the others in the Brotherhood. Everyone knew the two of them were married. They didn't need to know any more than that.

He needed to get back to the road before long. Losing Cicero's trail was one thing. Not really Arnbjorn's own fault. That man was a slippery little weasel. Hard for anyone to track, even him. But losing Cicero's trail and then failing to catch him on the way back to Falkreath would just be sad.

On the other hand, he was in the middle of a ruin now. So that was interesting.

It wasn't even all that big. It looked like a dwarven ruin, not a Nordic one. He could tell from the stonework, mainly. There were more arches, and more stairs, and a big solid floor made of huge square stone slabs. There was also a round platform, higher up, with smaller and smaller little platforms stacked on it. At the very center, so at the very top, was a dwarven metal sculpture.

That was how else he could tell this was a dwarven ruin. A sculpture made of dwarven metal. Arnbjorn was really an archaeologist deep down.

The sculpture was in two parts. The lower part was a sort of pedestal. A tall, narrow stand. It probably wouldn't have even counted as part of the sculpture, except it was metal too. The upper part was a couple of big metal hoops joined together like they were wrapping around an imaginary sphere at odd angles. And going right through them was a giant metal arrow, skewering some kind of fancy metal ball in the center.

It turned out that the pedestal part had a sort of empty indent on the top. With a hollow gear shape around the outside, and a green-gray glassy dish beneath, with another metal disc in the bottom center.

This was obviously dwarven machinery. Besides that, Arnbjorn had no idea what it did. And it wasn't his job to find out. This was a waste of his time. He tossed his empty ale bottle aside, then started back down the stairs.

There was another scent on the air. He recognized it instantly. A chill went through his chest. If this was what he thought it was—

_TCHUNK_

Arnbjorn almost didn't feel the pain. He looked down at himself, and saw the feathered end of a crossbow bolt sticking out of his thigh. His leg was going numb. All of it. Both of his legs. He fell to his knees.

This would've been an awfully good time to call upon his beast blood again. But it wasn't answering. Poison. The bolt was poisoned.

Somewhere up ahead, someone was reloading a crossbow. He could hear the lever pulling.

But when he looked up, no one was there. He couldn't see anyone. Was this it? Was this really supposed to be it for him? Dead, by the hand of a killer he couldn't even see?

In that moment, a thought entered his mind. Whoever this was, they'd successfully tracked him here. _They_ had tracked _him_. All of a sudden, he wasn't the predator anymore. He was the prey. And he had been all along.

But then another thought came to him. A thought that should have been there years ago. He'd known all the facts, but he'd never stopped to think about his own death. He truly should have.

All werewolves were bound to the Daedric Prince known as Hircine. When they died, they went to his hunting grounds, his plane of Oblivion, for their resting place. But only werewolves went there. No one else. No regular mortals.

Not Astrid. Not his love. His one love in this stupid little world. They wouldn't be able to share their afterlife together. And the realization hit him like no mortal wound ever could.

Arnbjorn wouldn't see her ever again.

There were so many things he would've wanted to say to her. He would've loved to at least be able to say goodbye. He really would've.

And he might have died thinking that, but then he heard the voice.

"I expected better from you."

No.

"You really made a lot of noise a minute ago. You were far too easy to find. Too easy to bring down, at that."

Arnbjorn snarled. "You little—"

_TCHUNK_


End file.
